The Elves of Cintra (Book 2 of The Genesis of Shannara)

He tightened his hands about his staff, took a deep breath, and walked out into the arena.

The roar that greeted his appearance nearly knocked him backward. Shouts of frenzied expectation rose out of the throats of hundreds of men and women. Boots stomped and banged against bleacher aisles, and hands clapped and pounded on metal seats. The faithful were gathered in force, there to witness his destruction at the hands of their leader, savior, and manufactured hero. Logan felt sick to his stomach, fear washing through him. He wasn’t immune to the latter, and while he had braved death a hundred times in his raids on the slave camps, he had never faced it down in circumstances like these. His throat tightened and his stomach lurched as the roar washed over him like an ocean wave that would drag him under and drown him.

But it was the massing of feeders all through the bleachers, around and under them, their dark shapes hunched and squirming in eager anticipation of what was to come, that chilled him to the bone. He had not seen this many since the boy Hawk, the gypsy morph, had been thrown from the walls of the compound in Seattle. Hundreds of them, waiting for the bloodletting. Waiting for their chance to drink in the pain and anguish, the dark emotions that would spill from the combatants. This was a battle between two Knights of the Word, and the chance to feed would never be more satisfying.

No one could see them but Krilka Koos and himself. No one else would even know they were there.

Logan Tom felt his stomach constrict at the thought.

Krilka Koos stood waiting at the other end of the arena. He was dressed all in black and gray, clothing and body armor of a piece, and he carried his black staff cradled comfortably in his arms. Already its runes were glowing a dull blue. He had the look of a man who was neither afraid nor anxious.

He waited with no sign of impatience or expectation. This would be just another battle for him, another killing. It would be a little more special than most because Logan was a Knight of the Word, but nothing more than that.

The outcome was predetermined; his certainty of it was mirrored on his face.

He waited until Logan was fully emerged from behind the bleachers, standing open and exposed within the arena, and then he spread his arms wide in open invitation. “Come fight me, Logan Tom!” he roared. “Come test yourself against me!”

The crowd roared, the sound reverberating off the rafters and shaking the sheet-metal walls. The feeders climbed over one another in an effort to get closer. Logan glanced at the open doorway through which he had come earlier, still thinking of the possibility of escape. The men who served Krilka Koos were mostly crammed into this warehouse to watch the spectacle, and there was little chance that they could prevent him from reaching the Ghosts if he could get through the door. But to do that, he would have to fight his way past rows of men and women at least ten-deep and turn his back on Krilka Koos in the bargain. What chance would he have of making it through? He gave it up and looked over at his adversary. The scarred face was bright with anticipation, the black staff pointing toward him now, leveled and ready for use. Logan shook his head and started to say, “Why can’t we take a different—”

He got that much out before the Word’s fire, wielded by its failed servant, slammed into him with pile-driver force and sent him tumbling backward, head-over-heels. The force of the attack was shocking. Pain ratcheted through his body, and his breath exploded out of him in a hard, quick gasp. He almost lost his grip on his staff; only instinct and desperation kept him from releasing it.

But the attack had another effect, as well. It knocked aside all hesitation and doubt, banishing in an instant every consideration but one. In his mind, the words screamed at him, harsh and commanding.

Stay alive! His training and instincts took over, and he rolled back to his feet in a single fluid movement. He didn’t bother trying to defend himself against what he knew was coming. Instead, he attacked. He summoned the magic and sent it flying across the arena into Krilka Koos with every ounce of strength he could muster. He watched it strike the big man, shatter against him, and stagger him with its force.

But it did little else. It did not flatten him as Logan had intended that it should. It did not break apart his defenses and give him reason to question his self-confidence. If anything, it reaffirmed it. He shook off the blow, steadied himself, and raised his arms in triumph, almost as if he believed he had already won the battle.