Exile (The Dark Elf Trilogy #2)(67)

Kill it my brave champion, the illithid pleaded from its perch in the stands. It is your enemy; most assuredly; and it shall bring harm to me if you do not kill it!

The hook horror, much larger than Belwar’s lost friend, charged the svirfneblin, having no reservations about making a meal of the deep gnome.

Belwar coiled his stubby legs under him and waited for the precise moment. As the hook horror bore down on him, its clawed hands wide to prevent him from dodging to the side, Belwar sprang straight ahead, his hammer-hand leading the way right up into the monster’s chest. Cracks ran all through the hook horror’s exoskeleton from the sheer force of the blow, and the monster swooned as it continued forward.

Belwar’s flight made a quick reversal, for the hook horror’s weight and momentum was much greater than the svirfneblin’s. He felt his shoulder snap out of joint, and he, too, nearly fainted from the sudden agony. Again the callings of Belwar’s illithid master overruled his thoughts, and even the pain.

The gladiators crashed together in a heap, Belwar buried beneath the monster’s bulk. The hook horror’s encumbering size prevented it from getting its arms at the burrow-warden, but it had other weapons. A wicked beak dived at Belwar. The deep gnome managed to get his pickaxe-hand in, its path, but still the hook horror’s giant head pushed on, twisting Belwar’s arm backward. The hungry beak snapper and twisted barely an inch from the burrow-warden’s face.

Throughout the stands of the large arena, illithids jumped about and chatted excitedly, both in their telepathic mode and in their gurgling, watery voices. Fingers wiggled in opposition to clenched fists as the mind flayers prematurely tried to collect on bets.

Belwar’s master, fearing the loss of its champion, called out to the hook horror’s master. Do you yield? it asked, trying to make the thoughts appear confident.

The other illithid turned away smugly and shut down its telepathic receptacles. Belwar’s master could only watch.

The hook horror could not drive any closer; the svirfneblin’s arm was locked against the stone at the elbow the mithril pickaxe firmly holding back the monster’s deadly beak. The hook horror reverted to a different tactic, raising its head free of Belwar’s hand in a sudden jerking movement.

Belwar’s warrior intuition saved him at that moment, for the hook horror reversed suddenly and the deadly beak dived back in. The normal reaction and expected defense would have been to swipe the monster’s head to the side with the pickaxe-hand. The hook horror anticipated such a counter, and Belwar anticipated that it would.

Belwar threw his arm across in front of him, but shortened his reach so that the pickaxe passed well below the hook horror’s plunging beak. The monster, meanwhile, believing that Belwar was attempting to strike a blow, stopped its dive exactly as it had planned.

But the mithril pickaxe reversed its direction much quicker than the monster anticipated. Belwar’s backhand caught the hook horror right behind the beak and snapped its head to the side. Then, ignoring the searing pain from his injured shoulder, Belwar curled his other arm at the elbow and punched out. There was no strength behind the blow, but at that moment, the hook horror came back around the pickaxe and opened its beak for a bite at the deep gnome’s exposed face.

Just in time to catch a mithril hammer instead.

Belwar’s hand wedged far back in the hook horror’s mouth, opening the beak more than it was designed to open. The monster jerked wildly, trying to free itself, each sudden twist sending waves of pain down the burrow-warden’s wounded arm.

Belwar responded with equal fury, whacking again and again at the side of the hook horror’s head with his free hand. Blood oozed down the giant beak as the pickaxe dug in.

“Do you yield?” Belwar’s master now shouted in its watery voice at the hook horror’s master.

The question was premature again, however, for down in the arena, the armored hook horror was far from defeated. It used another weapon: its sheer weight. The monster ground its chest into the lying deep gnome, trying simply to crush the life out of him.

Do you yield?” the hook horror’s master retorted, seeing the unexpected turn of events.

Belwar’s pickaxe caught the hook horror’s eye, and the monster howled in agony. Illithids jumped and pointed, wiggling their fingers and clenching and unclenching their fists.

Both masters of the gladiators understood how much they had to lose. Would either participant ever be fit to fight again if the battle was allowed to continue?

Mayhaps we should consider a draw? Belwar’s master offered telepathically. The other illithid readily agreed. Both masters sent messages down to their champions. It took several brutal moments to calm the fires of rage and end the contest, but, eventually, the illithid suggestions overruled the gladiators’ savage instincts of survival. Suddenly, both the deep gnome and the hook horror felt an affinity for each other, and when the hook horror rose, it lent a claw to the svirfneblin to help him to his feet.



A short while later, Belwar sat on the single stone bench in his tiny, unadorned cell, just inside the tunnel to the circular arena. The burrow-warden’s hammer-wielding arm had gone completely numb and a gruesome purplish blue bruise covered his entire shoulder. Many days would pass before Belwar would be able to compete in the arena again, and it troubled him deeply that he would not soon please his master.

The illithid came to him to inspect the damage. It had potions that could help heal the wound, but even with the magical aid, Belwar obviously needed time to rest. The mind flayer had other uses for the svirfneblin, though. A cubby in its private quarters needed completing.