Role

Chapter 1

The gnarled club hit Uthiln in the chest.

The breath rushed out of him, and he doubled over in pain. The young
half-elf's arms wrapped around his torso and he dropped to his knees.

The goblin gurgled a laugh and leapt, holding the heavy stick with both claws
over his head, bringing it swiftly down towards Uthiln's head. The half-elf
desperately tucked his arms in tighter and rolled just out of the way, a
whistling sound as the club thudded into the ground, pinning a black lock of
Uthiln's hair that was ripped painfully out by the roots. The goblin chattered
angrily as the blow reverberated up his lanky green arms. The roar of many
voices hooted at the goblin's rage.

Uthiln wheezed as he managed to find the strength to roll away up to his feet,
looking up the thirty foot sides of the Pit, at the goblins who looked eagerly
down, clapping and howling. How many fights was this? Twenty? Twenty-one? He
was the last one left. Faiyan had died the day before last, her head shattered
by a stone axe hastily thrown down by one of the onlookers.

They had been caught a fortnight ago. Uthiln's first patrol, finally granted
by his elders. A half-elf couldn't keep up, it was known. They could barely
fumble to string a bow, of course. It wasn't his fault, they assured him. It
just was.

But he had begged and finally they had relented. And here he was. Dashil had
fallen first in the ambush, the purest of wood elves. He had strung his bow
quickly, true. It hadn't helped with the knife a cunning goblin managed to
slip in his back, though.

Some of them were captured. Deryn had been eaten promptly once they arrived at
the goblin camp. The others provided entertainment in the Pit, after breakfast
every day, lowered down on ladders and at spearpoint. Any goblin that had
incurred their chief's wrath was sent down to fight against one of the
"elfies". And a lot of goblins incurred their chief's wrath. When an elfie
died, well, lunch was served.

And now he was the last. The half-elf. How was he here? He would be a good
mediator with the humans, they said. He was a good apprentice to Hishar, their
spiritual leader, he could mend minor wounds. But he hadn't learned any true
supplications. And he had never been the best fighter, it was true. But he was
here and they were not.

He looked up at the mass of goblins standing over the rim cheering. The goblin
had recovered and was barreling toward him, howling. A shiver ran up Uthiln's
back, and suddenly strength surged through him. His vision sharpened, and the
thudding pain in both his old and new wounds wafted away as if by a warm
breeze.

Time slowed and he heard a harsh muttering that he realized was him. He was
calling for the divine in a language that felt both foreign and intimately
familiar.

Time snapped back and he hissed the words at the goblin as it leapt for his
face, claws searching, club forgotten.