Free Warriors [4] Theros Ironfield by Don Perrin Page B

move.
    The elf immediately to his rear loosed an arrow right into the minotaur’s buttocks. Huluk jumped straight up at the unexpected pain, howling like a wolf on a full-moon night.
    The elves laughed. They were taunting their prey before killing it. They had forgotten about the human slave.
    Silently, moving slowly and cautiously, Theros edged over to Hran’s grave. His shovel stood where he’d left it, plunged into the mud. Grabbing the shovel by the handle, he returned to Huluk’s side.
    Huluk could barely stand; the pain of the arrow was maddening. He dropped his axe, grabbed the arrow sticking out of his rear and tried to pull it out.
    The elf officer was highly amused. “What have we here? A little human slave come to aid his master with a weapon of the ages, the mighty shovel of Palanthas!” The elves laughed, enjoying the show being put on for their benefit.
    Theros turned around in a circle, eyeing his foes, assessing his chances. They were zero and none. He turned back to the elf officer. He had not really regarded himself as a slave, even after all these years of captivity. After all, he had asked to come with the minotaurs. If they hadn’t been kind to him, at least they had never tortured him as he was sure these elves would. He wanted to be free, to be sure, but he wanted freedom on his own terms.
    Theros stared into the elf officer’s eyes. “You have no honor, elf. If you did, you would fight me like a warrior.”
    The elf officer laughed so hard he could barely stand. “Oh, I like this! A human slave is challenging me to personal combat. Very well, I will bring in the horns of a minotaur and the head of a human, too. All right, let him come forward. I will accept your challenge, human slave!”
    The other elves backed off, but still kept their arrows trained on the wounded minotaur. Theros held the shovel with two hands and began to circle the elf officer. The elf drew his sword from a jewel-encrusted scabbard, its blade flashing in the day’s sunlight. The elf danced around Theros in a circle. As he circled the second time, he thrust.
    The blow was so quick that Theros could not counter, could not parry. A gash opened on his upper arm. The blade gleamed and sang and gave Theros two more such cuts. Theros tried to lash out with the blade of his shovel, but the elf easily eluded him.
    The show was most amusing, or so the elves thought. They laughed and jeered as the fight continued.
    Theros knew the elf was only playing with him. At any moment, when the elf grew bored with the contest, he would sink his blade into Theros, who could do nothing to stop him.
    Outmatched, Theros circled with the elf. He had a plan. The elf faked a chest thrust and sliced across the young man’s hip. Theros ignored the pain.
    He lowered the shovel. The elf thought Theros was givingup. Instead, Theros scraped the shovel across the earth and upward, tossing dust and dirt into the elf’s face. The elf gasped, blinded. He dug his fists into his eyes, trying to clear them. Theros brought the butt end of the shovel up and smacked the elf squarely in the face. The elf fell over onto his back. His sword went flying through the air.
    Theros stepped back. The sword landed on the roadway just off to his side. The elf sat up and shook his head, holding his broken nose between his fingers. The other elves brought their bows up, preparing to shoot the arrogant human.
    “Stop! Lower your weapons!” the elf officer called in a tone more nasal than normal, due to his injury.
    Theros planted the shovel into the ground. He picked up the elf’s sword, tested it in the air.
    “It is truly a fine weapon, sir elf. The blade is perfectly balanced. I admire the craftsmanship.”
    Theros handed the blade back to the officer, hilt first.
    The elf paused, seemed on the verge of ordering his men to fire. Then, with a rueful smile and a shrug, the elf accepted the blade, clasping it in a bloody hand.
    “You have bested an elf warrior of the