Eric Elmoor and The Gauntlet of Godric

Chapter Six: LESSONS BEGIN

CHAPTER SIX

“Lessons Begin”

He was dreaming.

As he often did, Eric dreamed of far off battles of the ancient days, when foes squared off on the battlefield and clashed with swords and shields. With this particular dream, Eric faced an imposing combatant that stood nearly five feet taller than he, a seemingly impossible height. The combatant was more akin to a giant than a warrior.

Swords met. Eric's disadvantage of being smaller than his enemy served as his advantage upon the realization that he maneuvered much faster. He managed to get in a few well struck blows to his enemy's legs and abdomen...something which angered his foe dearly....

Without warning, the enemy struck back. The foe's broad sword was brought down upon Eric's flimsy shield with a force unlike which he had ever experienced before. Shortly, the dream of fanciful daring-do turned into something more akin to a nightmare.

Again and again, the combatant struck, forcing Eric to the ground. He cowered behind his shield, hoping that one of his fellow soldiers would come to his aid, but none did. The blows became more frequent and ferocious as the enemy went into a flurry of blood lust.

One strike managed to catch Eric in his rib cage. The pain was unbearable. Wake up, he told himself. This isn't fun anymore.

The blow to his ribs came again. Eric blocked with his shield but the coiled and twisted piece of steel became useless.

Crunch.

He could now begin to feel his ribcage caving in under the pressure as he was thrust sideways along the dirt-churned, grasslands beneath him. Wake up!

The dream shattered as reality came rushing back to him.

His eyes opened, trying to adjust to the purplish-white light emanating through the small window of his hut. The realization sprang upon him just like his imaginary foe – I'm not in Gondlair. I'm far from home.

“Get up, half-blood,” came a voice from nearby. It sounded authoritarian and instantly caught Eric's attention.

He peered around, noticing he had been kicked from the straw bed and was now lying on the floor. Near his doorway, Eric noticed a powerfully stocky elf standing before him. Scars marked his face and he wore his hair much shorter than most of the other elves in Fairwood. But despite his scars, he still looked rather youthful, as all elves do, even the older ones. As Eric sized this mysterious elf up he noticed that he stood nearly as tall as him but was far more muscular than any elf he had yet seen. In his hands he carried two wooden staffs – one of which he promptly threw in Eric's direction.

Eric was too tired to try to catch it as it popped him squarely on the top of his head and landed next to him. “Ow,” he said blankly.

“I am Warwick. I will be your instructor. What takes years to learn, I must teach you in weeks. I hope you can keep up. Come!” commanded Warwick.

Eric watched him exit the hut. He craned his neck toward the staff next to him and picked it up. Standing, he felt the clothes upon him stick to his skin. He had only packed two outfits, the other of which would be just as grimy as these – having changed from one to the other each day without a proper wash. He smelt himself, flaring his nose up at the foul odor. Why all of this dawned upon him now, he did not know.

“Are you coming, half-blood?” Warwick demanded from outside.

Eric slipped on his shoes, inhaled deeply, took the staff, and marched out the door.