by Rick Danforth
in Issue 148, May 2024
“Presumably if I lose the duels, I die?” asked Hop, feeling more nervous than if he was juggling his keys over a storm drain.
“Heavens no, elves are fantastic at keeping people alive for many, many years,” said the elf with a wide grin. “The King has kept the Queen in a cell since the civil war three centuries ago.”
Hop looked around the Fairyland courtroom, fair folk wasn’t the term he would use for a two-minute kobold court. The jury had left, only staying long enough to say, “guilty”, replaced by elvish warriors who must have been two meters tall. They did not wear clothes so much as items strung together—scraps of fur, bronze circlets, brightly coloured feathers. Several of them held bows, the tips of their arrows lazily pointing at Hop.
Hop signed the contract, all several volumes. Alice, his wife, signed it too. Neither looked happy. Neither was. For the first time in his career, Hop regretted his husband and wife partnership. But she was a fantastic witch. And couples who slay together stay together.
“Delightful. Now as you obviously read in the contract.” The Elf’s finger wagged, but his smile never dipped. “You are free to eat and drink as you please, without the usual repercussions. If you lose, you stay here for a hundred years and a day, or until death. Whichever is longer. If you win, you are free and can ask the King for anything in his possession. Including one of the two children you came here for.”
Hop’s face went wooden for a moment and his lips moved as he tried out various responses. Finally, he settled, weakly, for, “That’s not fair.”
“Perhaps, but it is the rule. Any one thing. Not twins, are they?”
Hop shook his head.
“Didn’t think so.” The Elf looked at a red flower blooming on the desk. “You have two hours before your first bout.”
“You’re letting us wander freely, then find the arena at the correct time?” asked Alice.
“Yes, yes. We don’t feel the need to encourage duellists’ attendance.” The elf smiled, a nasty thing a cat would show a mouse. “Indeed, that’s where the fun truly begins. The Wild Hunt does love to practice.”
Hop looked into the yellow eyes of the elf and decided he would rather camp out at the arena with a tent and packed lunch than miss it.
On the way out, Hop was guided to an armoury with racks and racks of gleaming bronze swords, shields and knives. Without enthusiasm, he selected a sword identical to a hundred other brethren. “Any chance of a shield?”
The elf sucked his breath in between its teeth like a market trader. “We do not encourage coward disks.”
“Wonderful,” said Hop with a sigh. He took two knives instead. They probably wouldn’t add much use, but they’d make him feel better at least. He would have preferred his crossbow, because the important thing about a crossbow was that everything happened a long way off. Or at least, his familiar steel sword.
But there was no iron in Fairyland, the circle stones wouldn’t let it pass. They had even left Alice’s prepping knife outside the fairy circle, before they had crept into fairyland like thieves in the night. Although with hindsight, Hop would have to admit they crept in with the stealth of one-legged thieves after ten pints of strong lager.
So, he tucked his bronze weapons under his leather inquisitor coat and left to the seemingly endless cavern that was Fairyland. Alice followed, slicking her blonde hair back behind her ears. Somewhat to Hop’s surprise, Fairyland was built of stone—so built out of stone that in fact there were many places where it was hard to tell where wild rock ended and domesticated stone began. All the buildings were low but had big wide roofs, giving the effect you might get if someone stepped on a lot of square mushrooms. If they had been painted, it had been a historical event, probably coming somewhere between the inventions of fire and the wheel. In the distance, a large colosseum loomed over the squat city like a parent.
“I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this,” said Hop.
“Mushrooms and treehouses?” asked Alice, grinning beneath swirls of blonde hair. “Dumpy little babies in romper suits with horns?”
They walked down the dirt path to the colosseum, the endless chain of little squat buildings only parting for two enormous statues of a man with a stag’s head and legs, the King of the Elves himself.
“They’re not that tall are they?” asked Hop, whistling at the antlers that touched the top of the cavern roof.
“No, no. Just a statue thing. He’ll be normal height, I’m sure.”
“You said it would be an easy job. Sneak through the fairy circle, grab the children, and be back,” said Hop bitterly.
“You wanted to believe the obvious lie,” said Alice with a shrug. “That says more about you, than me.”
What did it say about himself, Hop wondered? That he was so desperate to make a name for himself he signed up for such a dangerous contract? Or that he was so confident in his wife’s magic he didn’t think twice? Perhaps a bit of both. All he had wanted was a promotion, he’d been an Inquisitor Sergeant for a decade.
But now he stood in front of the Fairyland Colosseum doors, two great bronze things, desperate to duel for his own life. Not for the first time, he wished he had become a goat farmer. Instead, he was going to die as an Inquisitor Sergeant. He should have stuck to small payments for disposing of bewitched farm animals or possessed poultry.
He banged on them, making them rattle. “Let me in, you gits!” he shouted. “You told me to come here. Oh shi—”
The world simply changed. One moment he was standing in front of the gate and the next he was in a circular arena with dozens of elves watching him from rows of seating.
He caught his balance.
“Well, full marks for effort,” he managed. “Call me old fashioned, but back home, we just open the door.”
The Colosseum arena was the size of a village green, with rows upon rows of marble seats surrounding it. It was about a third full of fae. Apparently, Hop didn’t warrant more attention.
But they were definitely fae. Hop was in no doubt of that. There were elves, dwarves, hairy kobolds and even a couple of trolls looming like the walking boulders they were. They were seated around the arena, except that “seated” didn’t do them justice. They lounged; fae could make themselves at home on a wire. Their clothes ranged from lace and velvet to tattered leather, elves seemed to wear whatever they felt like wearing, confident of looking absolutely stunning.
Although their faces were indeed the most beautiful Hop had ever seen, it was beginning to creep over him that there was something subtly wrong, some quirk of expression that did not quite fit.
But he had bigger problems than that. A tall elf in the middle of the dirt-floored arena nodded at Hop. “Have you duelled before?”
“Of course.”
“Where?”
“The Stumble Inn.”
“Very good.” The Elf nodded.
Alice sidled up to Hop, whispering, “You’re counting that fight round the back of the pub as a duel?”
“Closest I’ve got. I won a prize,” said Hop, smiling fondly.
“You stole his wallet.”
“Same thing.”
“What do I do?” asked Alice.
“Watch and advise?” offered Hop.
“If they look like winning, I’ll use the elf book on the back of their head and we’ll run for it,” said Alice grimly, holding up Dealing with Elves. All 2,000 pages of it. “You up for this?”
“I’ll have to be.” Hop had done the six weeks of sword practice when he had joined the Inquisition, but hadn’t done six weeks of fencing in the following decade. He had always meant to fence more one day. He just hadn’t expected it to be today.
“You’ll be fine. Elves are physically weak, you’ll be able to bully them. They rely on tricks and treachery to confuse the simple-minded.”
That would have been far more comforting if she hadn’t called Hop soft in the head most mornings.
The Announcer turned to the meagre crowd, talking with a magically enhanced voice, “We have the new challenger, Old Fashioned, an experienced duellist from the Stumble Inn, who will face his first duel against Lorelei of the Water Folk.”
The contender stepped forward, drawing thin bronze daggers from her belt along with a broad grin. She was a tall woman covered in golden scales. Her face, resting someplace between a cod and a woman, was oddly desirable. Behind the daggers, her scales glinted beautifully, and the fins atop her head were tall and regal.
“She’s a siren!” called Alice.
“Great advice, never would have guessed.” Hop gulped. Between the siren and the watching crowd, Hop suddenly knew how a mosquito felt in the beam of a searchlight.
“They will duel to the third blood—or until either party is unable to continue. Blades only, no blows nor child’s play. In the case of dishonourable conduct, the second shall take up the blade of the participant and continue. Does this suit you?”
“Wait—” started Alice.
“Yes,” said Hop, striding forwards. Lorelei matched his gaze, but didn’t move a single glittering scale. Hop was considering a brutal, full-frontal display of brawn and strength when a soft melody hit his ears.
The tune lifted him off the ground in its loving embrace. The sun caressed him tenderly with its warm, gentle rays, while flowers sprouted just to greet him.
Then Hop was slapped back to reality by a stinging across his cheek, while the siren backed away from him. All around him, he heard the merry laughter of the elves.
“First blood to Lorelai,” called the referee.
“What the hell,” said Hop, swiping the air with his sword a couple of times, as blood trickled down his cheek. “Alice, what do I do?”
“Let me check,” said Alice. On the side, he saw her frantically flicking through the pages of Dealing with Elves.
“And what the hell do I do in the meantime?”
“Keep her busy.”
Hop groaned. Singing enchanted melodies was as natural to a siren as breathing. The referee was smiling, so he seemed unlikely to stop the tune.
Carefully, Lorelei wiped the blade on a piece of moss before continuing.
Hop swore. Bloody fae were so stylish. You’d never catch one eating breakfast in tattered pyjamas with holes in them. With that in mind, Hop threw himself at his opponent. His sword cut through thin air as the delicate, crystalline melody resumed, greeting Hop with the wind and the sun.
Unable to see, Hop slashed and parried at nothing, spinning and stepping with reckless abandon in the hope of putting her off. His sword collided with an unseen blade, diverting the other metal with a loud clang. Hop followed with wild sweeping blows to where he hoped Lorelai was, and was rewarded with a yelp of pain and a green blood stain on his sword.
Hop tried another swing, but was pulled back like a puppet on a string, twirling around until he sat on the floor. Hop lashed out again, hitting nothing but more frustration. Another cut appeared, blood blossoming from a nick on his arm.
“Second blood, to Lorelai. One to Old Fashioned,” said the referee. The crowd didn’t say much. They just laughed a lot. They were merry folk, the elves, especially when they saw someone being cut to death.
“Sit there and I will make it a kindness, no need to struggle,” said Lorelai with a soothing voice that Hop wanted to believe, as she wiped his blood off her sword again. She looked at his blood like touching it was beneath her.
“Alice!” called Hop, struggling to his feet. Just one more touch and he would be here forever, a valued guest of the most unfair folk.
“Plug your ears.”
“With what?”
“Anything.” Swearing, Hop emptied his pockets to find a bit of stale bread, a note and his tobacco pouch. As the siren started a graceful sweeping motion towards him, and the song blared up, Hop shoved as much tobacco in his ears as he could and then used his shirt as a bandana.
Slowly, her melody trailed away, growing softer and softer. The wind set Hop down. The sun paid him no special attention. Hop grinned at the siren. Now she was just a small, middle-aged woman covered in blue scales. Albeit a balding one with a trout pout. “I’ve heard cats wail better than that.”
If the retort wasn’t enough, Hop stepped forwards and cut her arm. Greenish-blue blood burst from her arm, one dagger dropping to the floor.
“Two to Old Fashioned.”
The siren just stared at the cut on her arm, then started backing away, clearly not up for whatever nonsense was happening.
Hop wasn’t an expert on siren body language, but he took the fins atop her head flattening, and the tiny gills just below her ears gulping down air as signs of nerves. He took his chance. Leaping forwards, he bore down hard with a furious flurry of wild swings which Lorelei, surprised and one-handed, could not parry completely.
The sword fell home, slashing her cheek and sending thick green blood flowing.
“Third and final blood,” said the referee.
“Well played,” said Lorelei with a sad smile. “The match is yours.”
Hop could barely hear them with his muffled ears, all could do was turn to Alice. “Cram stuff in my ears? That’s the best you could come up with?”
“Did you have a better idea?”
Hop had to agree he did not. He’d be picking tobacco out of his ear for weeks, but a win was a win.
Just two more duels and he would be free to go.
Hop and Alice sat in a fairy tavern by a coal fire, sharing a bottle of wine and some eggplant stew spiced with cinnamon and saffron.
Hop looked at it and frowned. “Bloody elves. Can’t even manage a good meat pie.”
In a pub back in the real world there would be singers, piano, fiddles. Here there was silence. That’s why they stole children.
And they wouldn’t waste their valuable music on two idiot humans in a small stone pub. They’d be more likely to waste one on the Queen in her prison cell than them.
With the tobacco in his ears, Hop saw the elves for what they were. Small, thin, humans with fox faces. “I thought elves were supposed to be beautiful?”
“It’s the magic, the same the sirens use but a milder version. Use the tobacco in the duels and it’ll help.”
Hop took the tobacco from his ears and was surprised as the old visions of the elves came back into focus. Even the kobolds grew by a foot. But it looked hazy now, as if by knowing about the trick you could see it.
Half the pub crowd were elves, half were human. Apparently, they were for the pits too. Some would be voluntary, others would be forced like them.
Hop had expected they wouldn’t be the first to try their luck at the fairy pits. You heard a lot of people in pubs wanting to try their blade. Although he’d never heard of anyone returning, which had always raised the question of how anyone heard about them.
“Any more notes to help me tomorrow?”
Alice was halfway through her copy of Dealing with Elves. “Lot on the civil war and the Queen, then the usual stuff. Mentions stale bread repelling them, but I think that’s rubbish.”
Hop touched the stale bread in his coat pocket. Alice may mock it, but hopefully, it would save him an ounce of pain.
“And the usual, never meet a fae without iron. They can’t bear its touch.”
“Should have smuggled some in our mouth, or hidden beneath the skin,” said Hop, anxiously looking at his arm and wondering if he could have smuggled a small dagger there.
Alice didn’t look up from her book. “Apparently, there is iron in the blood already. A wizard told me once, it’s called Hemogoblins.”
Hop stared at her.
Alice shrugged. “Hemogoblins. That’s what he said. All about people having iron in their blood. He reckoned he’d need one hundred people to forge a sword.”
“I don’t have iron goblins in my blood.” Hop looked at his arms a lot more closely. “I’d know about them.”
“There are no iron goblins,” said Alice sharply.
“Shame. Could have set them on the fae.” Hop sighed and took another drink. “Can you make me a potion of strength? Or speed?”
“Not with what I have.” Alice shrugged, shooting a glance to the world above where her supplies lay. “I can maybe make you a potion of increased confidence?”
“Please.”
Alice went to the bar and fetched a bottle of funnel-web whisky to place on the table.
Hop glared, then laughed, then drank the potion. He did admittedly feel better for it.
Lord Shaak was a kobold, red-face, large-eyed and covered in patchy fur. According to the Announcer, he was the most experienced of the fae duellists.
He was, of course, elderly, with a face that looked as though it had been screwed up and then smoothed out, and a short, greying beard. He looked so frail, bad language might knock him over.
Every single member of the crowd was giggling, chuckling or guffawing, with that unbridled delight only enjoyed by children, the freshly in love or homicidal fairies.
Everyone was having fun. Except for Hop, who felt he may never smile again.
The greying kobold drew a sword that Hop could have used as a letter opener. In the kobold’s arthritic claw, it wobbled like a flag in the wind.
Hop asked, “Are you sure?”
“I have been doing this since humans were trying to eat rocks,” said the kobold, not unkindly. “If you are polite, I will leave you with only scratches.”
It would have been a nice sentiment, Hop felt, if his loss didn’t mean lifetime imprisonment, or perhaps hanging in this very arena. Probably a halftime show between bouts, with food sellers working the crowd.
“If you lose this, I’ll divorce you,” called Alice.
“Your motivational talks are as powerful as your advice,” muttered Hop, quietly enough that his wife wouldn’t hear him. But his confidence matched hers. For the first time in his life, he found himself looking forward to a fight.
The venerable kobold slowly but surely adopted a fencing position, his thin rapier wobbling like jelly. He advanced on Hop, who decided to play defensively to start. It couldn’t be this easy, not with the titters coming from the elvish crowd.
The first lunge went wide of Hop’s boot, the second almost caught his shadow. By the third, Hop had the confidence to parry it wide. Stepping in to strike Shaak, Hop tripped and fell, nicking himself on the old kobold’s sword. It sliced a minuscule piece of skin from his wrist.
“First Blood,” called the referee.
“Get up you idiot!” called Alice.
Growling at the blood dripping from his wrist, Hop stood up. There was no time for messing about. Before Shaak was done wiping the blood off his blade, Hop tried a wild charge, flinging his body at the Lord, but the kobold moved with him and sent him rolling in the dust. This time he kept rolling, narrowly missing the sword hitting the dirt next to his head.
He rose to his feet with the sword between them, wishing it was a lot longer. “Alice?”
“I’ve got nothing. Could be using luck? Maybe he’s fast?” Alice threw the book on the floor. “Maybe he can read your mind.”
With a groan, Hop sent a few nervous cuts in the air with his sword. It had a good weight to it.
He stopped when the elves laughed at his swings. Then he charged.
The fighting was a fast and furious affair but, somehow, only on one side. The kobold fought like you’d expect old men to fight—slowly, and with care. All the activity was on the part of Hop, but no matter how accurate the lunge or speedy the cut the target was always, without any obvious effort, not there.
Another speed onslaught caused Shaak to trip, landing bottom first with a yell of surprise. But the top of his blade calmly cut a fine line through both Hop’s trousers and his leg.
Hop suddenly remembered playing chess with his grandfather as a child. The old man always won. No matter how carefully he’d assembled his offence, Grandfather would just place a piece quite innocently right in the crucial place just before Hop’s big move. The fight was just like that.
“He knows what I’m doing!” called Hop, as a sticky warmth started to fill his boot.
Shaak settled back into his low crouch. “Don’t worry, my boy. It’ll be all over soon.”
“I request a timeout!” called Alice.
“That’s not in the rules,” called the referee with a frown.
“Yes, it is. Book three, section five,” said Alice.
“I suppose we should review the rules,” said the referee with the enthusiasm of a man asked to catch a wet cowpat.
Hop sat on the dirt next to the arena and rubbed his temples. “I’m so glad you read the rules.”
“Never seen them.” Alice shrugged. “But while they try and read the rules, we can fashion a plan.”
Hop looked at the fae flicking through a binder of parchment that could beat a cow to death. “What’s the plan? Close my eyes and spin?
“He still has eyes, idiot.” Alice swore under her breath in a language Hop was happy he didn’t understand. “He can’t read your thoughts if you don’t have any.”
“Meditation?”
“Of a kind.” Alice grinned and pulled out two bottles of whisky from her bag.
“Is this a good idea?” asked Hop, looking at the thin cut on his arm.
“No. But do you have a better one?”
Hop didn’t answer. He just sighed and took a long swig of the whisky. As he drank, Alice tucked into a bowl of dessert from the bag. She had always been a skilled snatcher of unconsidered trifles.
By the time Hop had finished the bottle, reaching an advanced state of refreshment, the kobolds had finished perusing the rules. They politely appeared at Hop’s shoulder and coughed for attention.
Hop felt that he was in a warm amber haze. He was not in a safe place, but with Alice here he felt very much at home. And, somehow, the whisky made it easier to think.
A kobold leaned over and placed the rules in front of him. “There, it states clearly about no breaks or timeouts.”
“Sorry,” said Hop with a wide grin. “Can’t win them all. I’ll just finish this off, then back to the duel.”
He upended the whisky, fetching a confused glare from the kobolds. They knew something was up, but they were uncertain. Their concern only increased as Alice passed him a fresh bottle.
Hop staggered into the middle, waving his arms vaguely. “We going? Only I got places to be.”
“I can’t see anything!” screamed Shaak, his eyes going wide in fright. “He just wants a pie sandwich.”
“ ‘s right. Lovely grub. Would go down a treat,” said Hop, licking his lips.
“What are you covering it with?” asked the horrified kobold, backing away.
“Chilli sauce. Gotta have that and garlic.”
“Hit him you bloody idiot!” yelled Alice.
Hop burped. That was right. He had to defend himself or he was stuck in this hell forever. With no pie sandwich. He advanced, his sword wobbling with the rest of him, his arms moving like they had never met before.
The fae retreated, back to the edge of the arena. The crowd were jeering at their own hero, ashamed of what they saw.
“I can’t see anything useful,” said Shaak in high-pitched tones.
“The light down here,” said Hop, waving the whisky bottle expansively. “Need more sun. sort you right out.”
“Hop!” called Alice.
“Fine!” Hop lunged forwards, his sword hitting the stone of the arena wall as Shaak only just got away. He sent a slash in return but a cheeky elbow from Hop shut that down with a thud.
“You need to drink more,” said Alice, “He can still see some thoughts.”
“Fine.” Hop took a long swig of the whisky, ignoring the jeers as he stained his own clothes with the fluid. His face twitched a bit as amber blessings shut down vital protective systems.
Shaak saw his chance, stepping forward with a lunge so slow it made him look like he was fencing through treacle.
Hop brought the bottle down with pure instinct, smashing it over his head and kicking him in the fork as a follow-up. Green-blue blood was streaming from a dozen wounds on Shaak’s head as he crouched, holding his groin.
“I object—” started Shaak’s second, until Alice used Dealing with Elves in a different, yet very effective, manner to the author’s intent.
Hop didn’t need her advice to bring his sword down, skimming the ankle with a bright crimson line. The kobold howled, and another line joined it before he collapsed to the floor and threw up.
“Are you alright?” asked Alice.
“Any chance of that kebab?” asked Hop.
The elves may not provide good food, they may make whisky that Hop felt was closer to water than most piers, but he had to admit they knew how to handle hangover cures.
A steaming hot rose oil bath, followed by a bed of the softest linen sheets.
He could get used to life with the elves. Shame that they were actively trying to kill him in a ring.
They enjoyed breakfast as a dwarf brought their summons to the arena. It politely requested their attention in an hour’s time, and reminded them they were one duel away from releasing a child.
Hop groaned. “I really don’t want to be stabbed again.”
“You’ve been cut four times this week,” said Alice, sweeping food into her bag. “Must be building up an immunity by now.”
“I still don’t get why fae want to bring people down to duel when they don’t even fence properly?”
“They’re elves. The same reason they abduct children. It’s all silly games to them. Beating people and making a mockery of fencing pleases them.”
Hop thumped his hand down on the table. “The situation is ludicrous. We wanted to save two children. I’m duelling the menagerie of the weird and in the best situation, we rescue one child. What the hell do we do?
Alice put a hand on his arm. “Our best.”
The streets were deserted on the way to the arena, Hop didn’t see a single soul between the bar and arena. It soon became apparent why, every fae in this world and the next must have been seated in the arena.
For once there was more than laughter, more than the polite titters. Small snippets of conversation echoed as Hop strode in and started working his sword. This time nobody laughed at his slow patterns of eight, they gave it due attention as if watching a master at work.
The elves stopped chatting as their King entered. A giant creature, with antlers as large as the spear he held. His hind legs hadn’t been designed for bipedal walking; the knees were the wrong way round and the hooves were over-large, yet he walked with a graceful flow. He didn’t acknowledge Hop’s presence, just strutted slowly by.
He seemed to fill the arena. With his imposing frame as he turned slowly, taking in the small arena and everyone inside.
Hop was sure the King was more bothered about the viewers than the opponent. He hissed at Alice, “I told you the statue wasn’t a lie!”
“It’s OK,” said Alice, eventually. “He’s overlooking you. We can use that as a strength.”
“Just a shame his strength is, you know…” Hop sagged. “…actual strength.”
The King kept moving around the arena, he moved with grace, every sweeping action deliberate, almost as if he were dancing. Then he settled in the middle, moving his spear to point at Hop.
Hop stared at the King, who stared back at him. His hand checked the tobacco wedged in his ears.
The King laughed, a great sound which bounced around the arena. After a moment the elvish crowd joined him. “You’ll find my glamours need a little more than tobacco.”
“Nice little place you got here…king.” Hop pronounced the word very carefully in order to accentuate the lowercase “k.”
The King smiled at him.
Hop felt. Alice felt it. Their future children probably felt it.
The glamour swept over them. Hop couldn’t fight elves, not when he was so much more worthless than them. Not when they were so beautiful, and humans just weren’t. Like comparing tigers to rats They were bottom of the metaphorical ladder of life, next to the dung beetles, staring at the elves cavorting like eagles through the sky. He couldn’t fight an elf. Someone as useless as him, as boring as him, as human as him, could never win. The world just didn’t work like that. It was like asking the tide not to come in.
Hop managed to half-raise his sword, and then his hand slumped back down. Hop’s eyes lowered to the ground. The correct attitude of lesser beings before an elf was shame and obedience.
Cackling, the King strode towards him. “You picked up a couple of interesting little tricks on your way here, but don’t think they’ll help you now.”
All Hop could do was grunt.
“But I’ll tone it down. Having you widdle yourself doesn’t make for a great show.”
Hop felt the weariness drop away from him, as if resolve was poured back into him from a bottle.
“Alice?” asked Hop.
“Fillet the twat,” said Alice, shaking her head. “Venison for tea sounds lovely.”
The King bowed to Hop, and a little voice persuaded Hop that bowing was in his best interest. He gritted his teeth and did it.
“Very good, manners are important. We can teach you that during your stay here.”
The elves loved that, the bastard tittering elves.
They took their places opposite each other and eased themselves into fighting stances. Hop looked at his sword against the King’s spear. He couldn’t help wishing it was a lot longer. The story of his life.
The King moved first. He lunged with the spear, a lightning strike sent straight for Hop’s leg, twirling upwards at the last second in the shape of a question mark for his head instead. Hop stepped back and hacked at the spear point, but it had already disappeared.
The King repeated his attack three times, advancing on Hop who realised what the King was doing. He wanted to stay on the other end of the spear point, tire him out, and then humiliate him. He could already feel the hot ache in his muscles and the numbing greyness of fatigue poisons in his brain, two disadvantages that the King did not have to consider.
On the fourth time, Hop jumped back, bringing the sword round in a too-slow arc that the King easily deflected, turning the parry into a wicked low sweep that Hop voided only by a clumsy standing jump.
As Hop started to build hope, the King said, “You’re putting on a lovely show. Keep it up and I may set you free after twenty years.”
The King advanced, grinning. Hop ducked a cut at head height and dived sideways, coming up swinging the sword double-handed over his head, feeling a twang of dark exhilaration as the Elf darted backwards across the dirt floor.
“Time for a touch,” said the King, battering Hop’s sword out of the way and landing the point through Hop’s coat.
But no blood came out.
For the first time, the King’s smile froze.
Hop looked down at himself, patting his chest as he felt something familiar, and most importantly, dry. Alice called, “So you’re finally immune to stabbings? About bloody time.”
As he turned to call her an idiot, Hop caught the look on her face and smiled. “Oh, yes. The plan worked.”
“Don’t be—” started the King.
Hop flung the stale bread at the King’s face, stepped forward, raised his sword and brought it around in one long sweep.
The King moved faster than a greased eel. His hand snaked out and gripped Hop’s wrist. “Clever,” he said, grinning into Hop’s face. “Humans and stale bread. What next, a saucer of milk?”
He twisted. The sword dropped from Hop’s fingers.
“And you thought you could win?” The King cackled. “In Fairyland?”
Hop felt the bone scrape. He saw Alice elbowed in the ribs, her copy of Dealing with Elves clattering across the arena to laughter from the elves.
Slowly and inexorably, Hop was forced downward.
“Why don’t you try some magic?” called the King to Alice with a cackle of laughter that echoed through the crowd. “I’m sure—”
Hop kicked. His foot caught the King on the knee, and he heard a crack. As he staggered back Hop launched himself forward and caught him around the waist, bearing him to the ground. He was amazed at the lightness. Hop was skinny enough, but the King seemed to have no weight at all.
The King opened his mouth, Hop punched it shut. It felt so satisfying that Hop did it again. “It’s that bloody glamour, isn’t it? You’re nothing without it.”
Another punch followed, into an almost childlike face with a tiny mouth, and a nose so small that glasses could never be an option. A pair of yellow eyes larger than human eyes now focused on Hop in pinpoint terror.
The eyes of the King were all he could see. He just wanted to lose himself in them.
Then the King glamoured again, exploding into Hop’s mind like a hammer smashing an apple.
Hop was insignificant. He was so worthless and unimportant that even a dead worm would consider him beneath contempt. In laying hands upon the King, he had brought upon himself an eternity of pain. Which was far more than Hop deserved. The disdain sleeted over him, tearing his self-worth to pieces. He’d never be any good. He’d never be intelligent, strong, or successful. He’d never be anything at all. Why would the Inquisition want him back, let alone promote him?
And then Hop was circling again, with the Elf King laughing. Before Hop could ask what had happened the King’s hands moved in a blur and brought the blade cutting across Hop’s nose. Not enough for serious damage, but nicking it enough to gush blood like a fountain.
“We have to put some kind of show on for the giggling masses,” said the King. He wiped his blade on a piece of moss, then held it up to another round of laughter from the crowd.
Hop circled as the blood trickled down his face and into his mouth. It tasted like bronze and failure, and told him he was out of tricks. Alice looked on forlornly, so he was down to the final two ideas in the chest. “Look, an eagle!”
The King laughed, which gave Hop the opening to spit the blood in his face. What he hoped for was the opening to cut him while blinded. He wasn’t prepared for the King to drop to the floor screaming in anguish, a primal sound that echoed through the arena. It was long and low, like a foghorn in serious distress. It was the sound you might hear from a cattle yard on a nervous night, and it went on and on.
Hop watched as the King’s glamours fled, leaving him more of an upright goat than the god he had been masquerading as. Without knowing what else to do, he kicked the crouching figure. Fetching a satisfied grunt for his troubles.
“The hemogoblins,” called Alice.
“What?”
“Iron goblins in your blood.”
“Right.” Hop looked at the figure, then looked at his sword and grinned. He made two small cuts on the outside of his wrists and then jumped on the King. Turning him onto his back, Hop bunched up his fist and punched the King between the eyes. Amidst cries from the King, and silence from the crowd, he rained down punches and blood in an untimely mess. He no longer cared about winning, no longer cared about what happened, he wanted to make a point. A brutal, blood-covered, point.
Hop felt something scratching his leg, but he ignored it. Taking no notice of the sound of the crowd around them, Hop rained punches down and let his nose drip thick, red, blood onto the screaming elf.
“Stop,” said the King, spitting blood between his teeth.
There was a moment of almost terminal stupefaction before Hop hit him again. “You can yield, or we’ll stay here until I bleed dry!”
He went on punching.
Then he punched some more.
After that, he punched.
“Yield,” said the King, spitting out a tooth.
“Sorry, can’t hear you,” said Hop, dangling bloodied wrists near the King’s face.
“I yield!” screamed the King. The elves’ silence broke with hundreds of tittering, nervous laughs.
“Thank god.” Hop resisted the urge to flop onto the ground and gasp for air, instead standing menacingly staring at the King. The effect was only ruined by dropping his hands to his thighs and panting like an asthmatic Labrador. “You owe me two children.”
“One child,” said the King, standing up on legs unsuited to the task. Without the glamour, he only came to Hop’s chin. “You can pick any one thing as your prize, that was the agreement. And as a gift, you may keep the sword.”
“Don’t suppose you’d swap the sword—” started Hop.
“No. Pick something and get the hell out of my kingdom before I find you another duelling partner.”
“I’ll bleed all over every damn elf here to get both.” Hop waved his bloodied wrists menacingly.
“You’d bleed out and die first. But feel free to try. I will honour the deal, but no more.” The King’s haughtiness returned to him, as if he hadn’t been crying on the floor moments before.
With no better ideas, Hop turned to Alice. She signalled with the book that she was willing to hit him over the head, but Hop shook his head. His wife had given him a better idea.
“Fine.” Hop grinned, raising his voice to make sure the crowd could hear him. He knew they loved a show. “I choose your wife.”
“What?” asked the King. His smile didn’t vanish, but it did freeze, as smiles do when their owner is confused about what has just been said and isn’t sure what to say.
“Your darling wife you keep in the prison cell so far below. I would love for you to release her.” Hop grinned. “You said any one thing, didn’t you?”
“You can’t do that.”
“Oh, yes. Your wife will come back. And you little fae can have another few centuries of strife and civil war. No more games, no more abductions. None of your elvish silliness.” Hop grinned, drinking in the moment. It was far more delicious than the whisky could ever hope to be. “Or. You keep my prize in her cell, swap her for the two children we came here for.”
“Fine,” said the King between gritted teeth. “But according to the contract, you can’t tell anybody about what took place here. Especially the blood. If anyone asks, you found the children wandering the woods.”
Hop wanted to complain, but Alice shot him a glare that could open a locked room. “I accept.”
“It’s a deal.” The King’s words sliced through the air.
Before Hop could even turn to Alice to celebrate and complain in equal measures, the King clicked his fingers.
They awoke in the grass, the sun well over the Rim. Hop and Alice pulled themselves to their feet, staring at one another. There was not an elf in sight. Just the rough stone circle they had last seen what felt like a lifetime ago.
The stones weren’t shaped, or even positioned in an interesting pattern. There weren’t any romantic ideals about the sun striking the right stone at dawn on Midsummer’s Eve. Someone had just dragged thirteen red rocks into a rough circle.
It could have been a dream if not for the bronze sword in Hop’s hand. Elf blessings are often a curse. Something Hop remembered as he put the razor-sharp sword straight through his scabbard. “Bloody elves.”
“Do you see the kids?” asked Alice.
Before Hop could swear, two children wandered into view, staggering in through the tree line. Their arrival was delayed just long enough to stress them, but not enough to break a word.
“Thank you for finding us lost in the woods,” said the girl, a confused expression on her face as if she didn’t know why she had said it.
“Yes…” Hop trailed off, and sighed. The biggest achievement of his life and he couldn’t tell a soul about it.
“Lost in the woods,” said Alice with a stern voice.
There would be no promotion, no fame, no stories. But they would get a pittance and lunch from the village, a fresh sword and the children were safe. And all they left the Elf King with was a cold hillside, emptiness, and the hollow laughter of the elves.
©May 2024, Rick Danforth
Rick Danforth resides in Yorkshire, England, where he works as a Systems Architect to fund his writing habit. He has had several short stories published in a variety of venues including Hexagon and Translunar Traveler’s Lounge. One of his stories was shortlisted for the 2022 BSFA Award for Short Fiction. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.