The Chosen by Kris Kramer (read the beginning after the end novel TXT) 📕

always loomed. On more than one occasion, Eilidh’s boot cracked a floor tile, causing her heart rate to soar instantly. One wrong move could spell death for her, plummeting her into some hidden abyss formed by the quake.

“Optimism would be nice at a time like this,” she muttered as she stepped over a decent-sized fissure in the ground.

At the end of the hallway, Eilidh faced her first decision. Should she go left or right?

Ruaidhri had led her all the way down, so she admittedly hadn’t paid nearly enough attention to their constant twists and turns through Teekwood Caverns’ maze-like tunnel system. Both of her options looked very similar and offered no hints as to their identity. Eilidh moved a little ways down each hallway and looked back towards the entrance to the tunnel where the cave-in had occurred.

A missing wall tile sparked a vivid memory. Yes, she’d noticed that missing tile because it disrupted a grim picture of a priest sacrificing an unlucky victim over a flaming pyre. Not exactly what she would consider a work of art, but the image had etched itself into her brain well enough. Hope welled up within her. She would find a way out of this labyrinth, as long as her memory stayed sharp.

She stopped suddenly.

“Find a way out?” she asked of no one in particular. “A way out? No, I have to find Ruaidhri!”

Already Eilidh had lost sight of her true mission. She had to find her love and not just selfishly save herself. She scowled, staring down at her feet, her cheeks reddening with an embarrassment displayed only for herself. Even the floor before her seemed to glow bright crimson, the cracked tiles sharing her shame.

The red shadow before her feet slowly separated in front of her, half moving to the right and half moving to the left. Eilidh tilted her head curiously, embarrassment forgotten. What was this?

Eilidh knelt and reached out a hand to the rightmost half of the shifting red glow. The color continued its slow path to the edge of the floor and started to ascend the wall at a slow creep. When her hand touched the patch of crimson, a dark shadow from her right hand stretched out to the left.

She froze, eyes each as wide as a hunter’s moon.

The source of the red light was behind her.

As if reading her mind, the red glow rapidly shot up the wall and then began a quick downward descent. Eilidh twisted around to see an enormous havtrol bringing down a red flaming sword towards her head. An enemy of Andua had snuck up behind her while she pouted! Instinctively she reached out a hand and closed her eyes, foregoing all of her training, praying for a quick death.

“I’m sorry, Ruaidhri,” she whispered.

Eilidh opened her eyes, befuddled to still have that ability.

The havtrol was running away, chasing after its giant sword as it clattered loudly down the dim tunnel. Pebbles and dirt splattered all around her.

Of course! Her magical shield had saved her again. The havtrol’s wicked blade had rebounded off of the earthen wall with enough force to wrench it from its hands.

She clambered to her feet and drew her cheap sword, its weight giving her mind some peace. This havtrol obviously had even less combat experience than she did; she hadn’t dropped a weapon in over a fortnight.

Eilidh rushed down the tunnel after what she suspected must be a berserker of Bergmark. How the bastard had snuck up on her, she had no idea. Thankfully the havtrol’s gaudy choice in weaponry had given it away.

Truth be told, Eilidh had never actually seen a havtrol before, but this one matched all the descriptions she’d heard in stories. The brute was simply enormous; Eilidh doubted she reached the middle of its chest. Huge hands displayed monstrous claws, and the features of the ugly face looked unnaturally wrong. The monster had no cloak, and wore only simple armor that covered the key parts of its body.

Now Eilidh’s confident footsteps alerted the berserker, who’d bent down to retrieve its wayward sword. Its arms flexed to the size of Eilidh’s waist as it lifted its weapon. The havtrol leered at Eilidh and then disappeared before her unbelieving eyes. She ground to a halt and slowly walked backwards, bracing herself, readying her shield.

Ruaidhri had told her that assassins trained heavily in the art of concealment, learning to magically blend into their surroundings. But berserkers were not assassins, especially not this graceless, clumsy havtrol. Yet her eyes didn’t lie. The havtrol had vanished, and now she couldn’t allow it to get behind her, providing it an easy target.

As the blurry, shadowy shape of a havtrol materialized a few paces in front of her, she thanked the Tree that this creature hadn’t mastered its strange art quite yet. She rushed forward. The overly confident berserker, caught off-guard, took the full brunt of her shield right in the face.

The havtrol lost its balance as its concealment failed completely. Now in plain sight, the berserker reached a hand up to its broken nose, paying far too much attention to the damage done and not near enough to the damage yet to come. Eilidh raised her shield and lunged at her enemy once more, making solid contact with its unguarded torso.

The pair toppled to the floor, with Eilidh straddling the havtrol’s thick waist as it tried in vain to gain any leverage to swing its oversized glowing sword. Despite her foe’s vigorous twisting and grunts of rage, the moments passed fluidly and ethereally for Eilidh. Maintaining her powerful position seemed effortless as she drew back her sword and stared into the blood-soaked face.

The writhing fury beneath her stopped as the havtrol’s eyes accepted the inevitable. Typically known for brute strength and unrivaled fury, the mighty berserker’s face revealed nothing in its defeat to a small human. Eilidh drove her blade straight through the havtrol’s throat as it stretched out an arm in protest, mouth gaping in dispute.

Blood pooled in the berserker’s throat and spilled over the corners of its open mouth as its head wrenched back in momentary agony. Remembering Ruaidhri’s words, Eilidh turned the blade sharply and withdrew her weapon, leaving a ragged hole. The havtrol’s life streamed forth. After a single drawn-out convulsion, her foe’s body flopped lifelessly and remained still. Its eyes stared horribly into nothingness.

Eilidh had never killed a true enemy of her nation. She’d slain wild animals and a few wandering spirits within her own lands, but never a citizen of Bergmark or Caldera. Now a berserker lay dead at her hands. She’d spilled the blood of one of the Bergsbor.

And with this step she’d become a defender of Andua, just like her brothers, just like Ruaidhri. Apparently this creature hadn’t heard about the ceasefire arranged by King Darren and the Bergsbor ruler. Too bad.

The calm sensation in her bones gave way to a powerful rush of adrenaline. Her hands shook so much that she had a difficult time cleaning her sword on the havtrol’s brown cloak. Without anyone to tell her otherwise, this seemed like the most logical way to cleanse her soiled weapon.

The exhilaration thrilled her. Never before had she felt so alive. This kill had purpose; it had meaning. This thing had tried to kill her in the spirit of hate that drove the Bergsbor to such violence, but she’d defended herself impassively, totally detached. This was a righteous kill.

Yet, how had this havtrol entered Teekwood Caverns? It must’ve followed her and Ruaidhri down from the beginning, somehow avoiding the detection of the subpar guards at the entrance. That was the only explanation. The coward probably waited and waited for a moment where Eilidh would separate from Ruaidhri just far enough for an easy kill. She regarded the slain berserker once more.

Not so easy, am I?

She beamed with pride and collected herself once more, ready to take on the world.

This foe had obviously been a novice like herself, and she’d dispatched it handily, but the next opponent could be far fiercer. Her smile faded and a grim resolution crossed her pale face. Too much time in the underground reaches of the Teekwood Caverns had faded her skin’s sun-kissed hue. She deeply longed for the green grasses of Bristaen, but her mission in the depths required completion.

She had to find Ruaidhri.

Sword drawn and shield at the ready, Eilidh strode with purpose, navigating the intricately carved tunnels with superhuman clarity. The adrenaline-charged blood coursing through her whole being kept her mind sharp and her wits on edge. Two more bears fell to her blade, each more easily than the last. Her strength grew with each step in the dark recesses.

Eilidh stopped at the entrance of a dark tunnel. Her sense of direction indicated that she needed to head this way. She could feel that Ruaidhri lay beyond the utter darkness of the unlit passageway. Fear tried to edge its way into her mind, but sheer determination and desire forced the fright out. Eilidh grabbed one of the torches off of the wall and held it in her left hand, having mounted her shield on her back, under her brown cloak. The torch felt light in her grip compared to the mass of her wooden shield, but the lack of protection left Eilidh almost unbearably vulnerable.

Resolve took over. She marched into the darkness, torch leading the way, sword at the ready to offer a swift conclusion to any disagreements. Despite the blackness all around, her feet told her that the tunnel angled down further into the caverns under Teekwood. The silence loomed and pounded inside her head as she forced herself on, her stony gaze limited to only a few paces ahead.

Someone’s boot scuffed the ground behind Eilidh. A tiny pebble skittered across the tunnel floor, skipping past her foot. The subsequent silence told her everything she needed to know.

She was not alone.

Chapter 11

 

The first arrow sailed towards Eilidh’s back, but ricocheted harmlessly off the earthen wall thrown up subconsciously behind her. Before she could even think of summoning another buffer, a second arrow slammed into her wooden shield, still strapped firmly to her back. The impact knocked the breath from her, pitching her forward onto one knee and throwing the torch from her grasp.

Still gasping for precious air, Eilidh furiously pulled at her shield, trying to dislodge it. It wouldn’t budge.

That second arrow must have pinned the shield to my cloak, Eilidh realized with horror.

Her dismay intensified when she caught a glimpse of her helmet lying on the ground next to the fallen torch. There was no time to retrieve it. She had to take the offensive quickly.

A third arrow rebounded off of a freshly summoned rock wall as Eilidh rose and rushed her shadowy enemy. With the light of the torch now lying behind her, Eilidh’s own long shadow blocked her view of the assailant. Out of the darkness, pain erupted in Eilidh’s left arm as an arrow found its mark, knocking her off balance.

The agony soared to heights Eilidh had never thought possible. The simple task of running became arduous to the point of hopelessness. She stumbled forward, still seeking the enemy ahead. Another arrow appeared from the gloom, barely missing Eilidh’s cheek and sailing through her exposed red hair like a cool breeze. The missile’s flights scratched at her ear on their way past.

The archer strode towards Eilidh, confident that she’d been sufficiently weakened. In truth, Eilidh felt miserable, leaning against the wall, breathing deeply, agony wrenching her lifeless arm. The enemy’s lapse in professionalism cleared Eilidh’s mind. The archer should’ve finished her off from a safe distance when they had the chance.

She dropped her sword to the ground with a clank. She reached up and yanked out the arrow from her arm in one sudden motion. The excruciating pain shocked her in its brutality. Her mind fought against the physical distress and released a calming sensation in defense. Eilidh felt oddly at peace.

Closing her eyes softly, Eilidh reached down through her feet into the ground, calling forth the Tree’s healing powers. The earth’s quick response flowed through her body like the warmth of a good bath.

Ethereal white vines wrapped around her arm and cinched tight, before fading inwards through her clothes and into her skin. Revitalized, Eilidh grabbed her sword off the ground and struck out at the cocky archer who now stood within her reach. The glint of two blades materialized from the darkness, illuminated by the torch down the hallway. The orange glow reflected wickedly against the swift steel, but the suddenness of Eilidh’s attack had obviously caught her foe by surprise. The archer’s weapons failed to catch Eilidh’s sword in time, yet her blade infuriatingly missed its desired target in a sloppy uppercut motion.

Fortunately, Eilidh’s fist, still wrapped around the sword,