The Hero

Chapter 9

Shocked glances were shared amongst the group until a voice spoke up.

"What?"

The boy stood still in fright as his eyes finally went somewhere other than the Champion's immobile, frozen visor.

"The dwarven king declared war on us, sire," he relayed, then gulped. "He wagged a finger at me and yelled in a language I couldn't possibly understand—"

"Did the elvish monarch do the same?" Fronce demanded, uncaring about what happened to the boy. It only mattered what the message was.

"He... he..."

"The elves and dwarves are practically one entity, Fronce," Grivdon said, like it was obvious. Fronce snorted in irritation. "If the dwarven king declared war, then it's safe to say the elves did as well."

"Two colossal powerhouses against one split, recovering child," Fronce muttered, loud enough for those listening to hear. His voice was loud by nature, a true leader by heart. Rather, an irritated one who would always complain if he didn't get what he wanted.

"Save your poetry for later," Violet replied, and looked at the boy with soft eyes. "Did the translator give you anything else to say? Or were you just rudely dismissed?"

"He..." the boy sputtered, but after looking at her eyes, he gulped courageously. "You have one day to relinquish the quarry, pay the demands, and express your deepest apology."

"The nerve of those filthy rats," Fronce spat. "They think the world is theirs. That we are nothing. Sadly, with this moron wearing armor all day on the throne, we're screwed!" He threw his arms up toward the Champion, who remained motionless in his chair, despite his right fingers tapping against the table in a bored rhythm.

"What is the status of the bandits?" the Champion asked, as long silence followed. Men stared at him as if he were crazy. Like he hadn't been listening at all.

"Who cares?" Fronce snapped, his thick mustache barely able to hide his menacing frown. "We're doomed either way! If anything, the bandits will give us a better chance of victory—"

"I asked if the bandits have been taken care of or not," the Champion interrupted, his right fingers tapping with greater force. He slowly cocked his gaze toward Fronce. Even he couldn't look away, despite his aggressive ego, and began to mutter curses under his breath.

"I have assembled enough men for an assault," the older man, who accepted the task yesterday, claimed. "All I need is your permission—"

"But the threat is not gone?" the Champion asked coolly, fanning his visor onto the man.

"No... milord... I need time..."

"Time has been given." The Champion pounded his finger onto the table to startle everyone sitting around to their senses. "I gift you power to perform a simple deed, and yet you managed to fail."

"No... it's... it's..." the man sputtered, his forehead turning red. They were all like this in the end. Desperation. It was an act to call upon pity, the only thing that would save him; however, the Champion had no pity. This was just a fool's game.

"Tomorrow, I expect news of triumph and status of the enemy." The Champion cast his gaze aside, his right fingers resuming their tapping. "If not, don't bother coming back here."

"Well, why would any of us after you've screwed up everything!" Fronce demanded, but the Champion didn't look at him. Instead, his tapping remained calm and in rhythm.

"You seem to think the decision is ill and foolish."

"Because it is!"

The Champion stopped his finger before it could tap against the table. It just lingered there, a mere hair away from continuing its purposeless routine.