The Shadowseeker - Victor Kloss Page 0,90

was starting to tire, and his parries were starting to slow, some deflecting Elessar's blow by inches. Elessar could sense he was close and attacked with renewed ferocity.

Ben ducked another blow and felt the sword slice a few strands of hair. If he didn't change something rapidly, Ben knew he would be dead within minutes. He had one option left – an option that he knew his dad used rarely because of its risk.

Stepping inside Elessar's latest strike, Ben attacked. He gave it everything, his own sword cutting and slicing. Elessar retreated in surprise. Ben pressed forwards and with a flurry of moves his dad tried only in emergencies, he penetrated Elessar's defence and nicked the elf's slanted ear.

Elessar gave a cry of pain and annoyance. Ben tried to push home his advantage, but the pain seemed to energise Elessar, and he blocked everything Ben threw at him. After a moment of frenzied fighting, they both retreated a couple of steps, panting.

“You're almost spent,” Elessar said, twirling his sword slowly, a triumphant smile playing across his lips.

Ben didn't answer; talking would only expend unnecessary energy. But beneath his grim, determined exterior was a growing desperation. Elessar was right. Ben was having trouble lifting his sword. How much longer could he go on? Three minutes? Five at the most? He glanced at Dagmar; she was sitting up, looking on with quiet desperation, clearly unable to help. Ben thought about running, but he couldn't abandon Dagmar or leave the boots at the mercy of Elessar. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to climb the rocks before Elessar caught him. There were the spells in his pouch, but there was nothing that would be of any use to him now.

“Goodbye, Ben Greenwood,” Elessar said, and he came forwards again.

The sound of soft footsteps made Elessar pause. They were coming from the tunnel Dagmar had been trying to block. Charlie and Natalie? No, that wasn't possible.

Elessar was no longer focusing on Ben. His purple eyes were trained on the tunnel, his mouth open slightly, his empty hand glowing with energy.

The forreck emerged from the passageway and stopped, surveying the scene that greeted him with almost human-like intelligence.

“No,” Elessar whispered, the blood draining from his face. He raised a hand, as if silently praying for the forreck to stop. Such was Elessar's shock that Ben was momentarily forgotten.

Ben took his sword and made one last attack. It was a last desperate attempt that he fully expected Elessar to block, even though he wasn't looking. But the sword reached Elessar's belly unopposed and sank deep into the elf's flesh.

Elessar groaned, and stared down at the sword, his hands gripping it feebly, too late realising his fatal mistake. Ben removed the sword and stepped back. Elessar fell to his knees, what life there was in those evil purple eyes slowly fading, and collapsed in a pool of his own blood.

Ben was breathing hard. His hands were sweaty, his heart thumping against his chest. He had just killed someone. A flurry of emotions washed through him – horror; regret; dread – but these all passed quickly. Killing an enemy, one as evil as Elessar, was no crime – quite the opposite, he kept telling himself.

“Ben. Do not move.”

It was Dagmar's voice. He turned, and found that she had struggled to her feet and was staring hard at the forreck. The forreck, however, did not return her gaze. It was staring right at Ben.

Ben forgot all about Elessar.

The forreck was a thing of terrifying beauty. It was the size of a tiger, with the blackest fur Ben had ever seen that contrasted with the white stripe that zigzagged down its back and covered its tail. Its eyes were green and impossibly large. Though the forreck was standing still, Ben could feel the strength and power emanating from its limbs and in its poise.

With impeccable timing, Ben's sword spell disappeared with a blink, as did the vast knowledge on swordsmanship he had borrowed from his dad. Moments ago he knew twenty different types of ripostes; now he barely knew how to hold a sword. But that didn't concern him. Even with the sword and his dad's vast array of knowledge, Ben knew he would be ineffectual against a forreck.

The forreck still hadn't moved; it was surveying him, studying him. Ben wasn't sure whether to look it in the eye or to turn his gaze away in an act of submission.

His heart was hammering worse than at any