The Game: Prologue and Chap 1

The Game: Prologue and Chap 1

A Chapter by Rebecca

Prologue

                Bright white light fills my vision, fills my head like hot fire, searing my eyes. The pain comes suddenly, pushing me to the ground. Seconds pass as I try to blink the blindness away, and the white is replaced by red. Blood clouds my vision, oozing from the impact wound on my head. My muscles ache, my body screams in protest, but I must stand.

                Victory or death. Victory or death. I chant this in my head, over and over, willing my arms to push me to my feet.

                Wobbling, I stand. I wipe the blood from my eyes, searching desperately for my fallen weapon. I hear the whoosh of air from a swinging stick and dodge just in time. Victory or death. I must move quickly. Something dark off to the side catches my eye. I glance at it, recognize it as my weapon, though my brain is fuzzy from the pain. Fast as I can on shaking legs and aching muscles, I force my body to move, move. Three steps have me there, picking the stick up, raising it in defense. I hear heavy breathing behind me; whirl around to face my opponent. There he stands, overweight and tomato red in the face. Sweat beads gleam on his forehead; his eyes bulge as if they are attempting to break free from his skull. Blood trickles from a gash on his leg, but he is otherwise unharmed. The man is fresh meat, fresh out of the waiting prison, fresh for his first fight. I intend to make it his last. My hands are slick with blood on the stick, I have to fight to get a good grip on it. One good swing. One good strike. Victory or death.

                My body acts before my mind has time to think. Survival instinct has combined with one last rush of adrenaline. For those brief moments, the pain and the tired disappears, vanishes as if it never existed. I feel the energy pulsing through my arms, raising the stick, aiming the stick, thrusting it. His eyes open ever wider, more than I thought possible. His jaw lets out a cry. Blood gushes from his neck, spurting and oozing and flying everywhere, covering everything. The stick has found its mark in his thick neck, it has taken another life. Not a second after the man falls to the ground, death in his eyes, I stumble back. I have to make myself stand. I am the victor, but the ground must see it. They must believe it. I pull the stick from its bloody holster, use it as a cane, raise my arm for all to see my victory.

                A cheer runs through the crowd, thunderous and deafening, but I am numb to it. My body, my mind, my soul, they are done. Rest, let us rest they cry. We have no more left to give.

                “To the victor go the spoils. Let the elf free!”

                Victory. I can go free.

 

Chap 1

                The arena. Laughter and yelling, cursing and threats. Those are the noises that fill my ears as I stand behind the barred door. The floor is sand, stained brown from the blood spilled over the years of the arena’s existence. Behind me are the rest of the females who are waiting their turn to fight. A thousand faces spectate from the stands. Morning sun filters through the door, creating faint shadows on the ground beneath me.

                “Let the Game Commence,” booms a voice over the arena. A heavy set, heavily armed guard opens the door and pushes me into the sand. There is a loud clunk as the door shuts behind me. A chill runs down my spine as the realization that my fate could very well be sealed in this arena. Twenty feet away stands my opponent, a red haired dwarf. Muscles bulge in his shortened arms; veins pop out in his head. He has a wide stance, an angry face. I can see that he does not intend for me to leave this place with my life.

                I have already surveyed the arena, looking for anything to use as an escape route, or something to use as defense. But there is nothing. The fighting pit is nothing but an oval sand filled area surrounded by brick wall, broken only by three doors. Two of them contain captives, the other is for guard movement. Two large sticks fly from nowhere, landing noiselessly on the sand. It seems that these are to be our weapons.

                Both of the sticks landed near the dwarf, and I can see a smirk cross his face. He thinks he has this fight already won. I will show him differently. Elven blood has graced me with speed and agile limbs. I make it to one of the sticks before the dwarf has a chance to pick one up. But speed comes with a price. I would not be able to make use of such quickness again until I regained my energy. Now I would have to be wary, always on my guard. This one looked like a fighter. Looks though, can be deceiving.

                He moves towards me, taking ungainly steps, trying to move as fast as he can. It appears the muscle is this one has hindered his ability to travel from place to place in a decent manner. With a stick in hand though, he looked meaner than ever. I wasn’t going to back away though fear swept through me like a rush of wind. Finally, the dwarf managed to move a bit quicker, but I had regained my energy. With quick legs I ran around him, finding a spot behind the dwarf. His bulky neck was covered by as vast expanse of course hair. Unless I used enough strength, there was no way I could drive a dull stick through a tangle of hair and muscle. He turned, moving faster now. I suppose the fear of death had been hindering his movement earlier. Now he simply seemed determined to end my life. I was determined to not let such a thing happen. Not now, not yet. I would not let my life end here in this hell. The arena was not to be my graveyard. I could not say the same for the dwarf. I knew him not, nor did I want to know him.

                “Victory or death,” I muttered as the words floated into my mind. Kill him. Kill him. The quicker he dies, the sooner you live. Kill him.

                I moved on nothing more than animal instinct. Kill him. Victory or death. Circling, I moved back in front of the dwarf. Kill him. I looked for a weak spot, finding my target in an instant. Victory or death. My hands gripped the stick. The fear of my fate being sealed in this tomb was, for now, gone. Kill him. I took aim. I moved, running towards him, feet pushing hard against warm sand.

                His eye. My stick drove into his eye, straight into his brain. He struggled not, for the blow had taken his life instantly. The blood dribbled from his eye socket, flowing over his face, dripping into his slack mouth. The dwarf fell, and as he did I pulled the stick from his eye. Victory was mine. The crowd cheered.

                “Victory to the elf. Let her move on to Round two. Fight to the death, little elf. To the victor go the spoils.”



© 2012 Rebecca


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Added on January 31, 2012
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Author

Rebecca
Rebecca

About
I'm Rebecca, just your average *** year young girl who likes to write, read, watch movies, go on walks, blah blah blah. more..

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