The Proving of Champions, Chapter 1

The warm, late summer sun was cut by a brisk mountain breeze, rushing past the Temple of Thorgarick and down into the patchwork of farms and pastures in the valley below. Fleta tensed in a ring of trampled heather and blue moor grass. Her hands clamped on her wooden practice sword, knuckles white. The sweat on her brow turn icy in the cold breeze.

Her opponent—favored disciple, village darling, and undefeated swordsman Alber—eased into a broad smile. The wind swept his golden hair, and he sat into a low fool's guard that mocked Fleta's anxious and shifting stance. Behind Alber was the Gate: a platform of marble and gold, containing an ancient arch and a once-in-seven-years chance for Fleta to win the respect of disciples and villagers alike.

Alber was several times stronger than any ungifted man, but Fleta was many times faster. Fleta blurred into action. She circled her opponent, feet flying a yard for ever inch Alber turned to meet her. Fleta watched his sword carefully. When there was no chance that Alber's wooden blade could turn to parry her strike in time, she charged. Alber began to shift all of his weight onto one foot. Only then did Fleta realize her mistake. Fleta dug her heels into the ground and squatted, but she continued sliding across grass of the sparring grounds, right into Alber's kick. Fleta shot backward, rolling heels over head. Fleta struggled for breathe against throbbing ribs. Alber drove his point home, literally, as his practice sword flew through the air, burying itself to the hilt in the ground next to Fleta.

"I don't even know why the high skald would consider nominating you," Alber said. He ran a hand through his straw-colored hair and sighed, turning his sky-blue eyes out over the valley and stretching broad shoulders and muscular arms. "Just quit. You'll have another chance in seven years. You could use the extra practice."

Abler was gifted, not merely muscular. He could lift more than five times as much as anyone his size. He wasn't the strongest Thorgarick, but he was the best fighter. Every girl in the high-valley village of Lyntre had a crush on Alber. That was one of many reasons Fleta spent little time with the other girls.

"Alber, insults are unbecoming of a champion," said Hereward, captain of the guard and sword master. He was no taller than Fleta, though his limbs were thick with string muscle even in his older age. He had dark hair, which turned gray in his curly, short beard, and veins that bulged from decades of barking orders. Although he corrected Alber, a subtle smile played across his broad, lowlander face, and pride gleamed in his brown eyes.

"The Proving of Champions is dangerous!" Alber turned to the sword master, uncowed. "You've said it. Terrell says it. Everyone says it! I'm just watching out for her."

"High Skald Terrell says it, and you can leave the saying of it to us," Hereward bellowed, not from anger but habit. "How about you do a little endurance training to blow off that steam? Run down to the lake, swim across, and run back."

Alber huffed off, and Hereward squatted next to Fleta. Fleta furiously dusted herself off and rebraided her fiery hair. "Alber is insolent but correct. You should practice more. You miss lessons, hardly listen, and fail to do any practicing in between. You're not ready for the Proving."

Fleta's pale, freckled cheeks flushed deep red, but she held her tongue.

"I've recommended Alber to the High Skald," Herereward. "Even Shaw tells the Skald you could be on the scouting or rescue teams."

"I'm the fastest Thorgarick!" Fleta shouted back. "You want to send the second strongest disciple as our champion."

"It's one thing to have a gift, Fleta," Hereward stood up. "It's another to have the discipline of a champion. The second strongest disciple is undefeated in combat, even against you. By the grace of Thorgarick, I haven't won a match against him since he came of age. Not when he's using his Valcot sword."

"The Proving of Champions is hunting, not dueling!" Fleta retorted, turning away from Hereward to hide her burning cheeks. Her eyes sought out the hills east of the valley, where her family pastured goats. She took a breath and calmed herself.

"And if scout master Shaw recommended you as an expert hunter or scout, you might have a valid point," Hereward stroked his neatly trimmed black and gray beard. "Now, what to do with a second insubordinate disciple?"

"Lake and back?" Fleta half-turned, asking with a wry smile.

"Ha! Too easy," Hereward. "You rush things and then hesitate when you should be prepared for action. Perhaps you need to slow down."

"Wall sits until Alber gets back," Hereward called over his shoulder as he gathered practice swords and stalked off. "And if, by some miracle, the High Skald does name you as champion, consider using a spear. If you can't dodge or feint, use your speed and the spear's reach to stay out of range."

Fleta swore to Paragons and prats and shuffled over to the vast marble pavilion containing the Gate to do her wall sits.

Fleta wobbled her sore legs to the edge of the eastern cliff overlooking the valley. After a moment, Fleta pulled out the folds of her tunic that were tucked inside her belt. Not every gifted disciple at a temple received such an expensive Valcot-made item, although it wasn't half as pricy as Alber's sword. Only a few exceptionally gifted disciples got Valcot equipment, and only if a Valcot felt inspired. The order of fire and genius had loved designing a sword for a boy-soldier prodigy with five times normal strength.

Luckily for Fleta, High Skald Terrell had found a Valcot who was fascinated by a girl who ran so fast she accidentally went airborne when cresting hills. After Fleta had come home repeatedly with scrapes, bruises, and finally a broken leg, her mother, Henli, marched up to the temple to give Terrell a piece of her mind. Terrell sent a few letters and some money to the Valcot temple at Seageat, and—eventually—they sent back this tunic with a few instructions and diagrams.

The tunic was dyed in a typical Thorgarick navy, but the fabric was light, strong, and remarkably unbreathable. Two loops connected to reinforced seams at the edges allowed Fleta to quickly pull the loose folds of the fabric into wings of a sort. Fleta gripped the loops and dove off the edge of Gate Pavillian Bluff. She felt the tunic begin to billow and pulled the loops low and tight, leaning with her shoulder or raising her legs to turn as she zoomed into the valley below. Eventually, she arched and pulled her arms in and back a little to catch the air. She slowed as she half-plumetted, half-glided towards a hill on the opposite side of the valley.

As she swooped across the valley, she saw some villagers raise a hand and wave far below. Fleta always had to remind herself not to wave back. Some of the very people waving were the kids who refused to play games with her because she was too fast. But, being "the flying girl" of Lyntre did give her a little more sway. Likely, it was one of the reasons Terrell was still considering her for the Proving. 

On the hill was a humble house, half dug into the ground for insulation, built with timber and sod. Almost three-quarters of the visible cottage was a steep, straw thatching. Fleta swooped around, diving low and then pulling up so she could make a running landing as gravity helped slow her. Unfortunately, her legs had locked up after over an hour of wall sits. She tripped, turned it into a roll, and flopped before the door.

"Mother!" Called a young voice. "Fleta's here!"

Father had brought the goats back from the pasture. He was weeding in the garden while his mother taught the young children how to milk a goat. A herd of children and goat kids, guided by mother Henli, came around the side of the cottage and crowded around Fleta's sprawled form. Fleta dusted herself off, checking her expensive gliding tunic for tears.

"Running not fast enough for you anymore?" Mother clucked.

"I can use as much practice flying as I can get." Fleta smiled sheepishly.

"Are you practicing your other lessons?"

"Honestly, the flying was good," Fleta said. "The only reason the landing was hard was I over-trained my legs today."

"So you're still set on being this year's champion?" Said Henli, not a question. "I worry about you."

"Yes, if the High Skald is willing to name me, I will go," Fleta said. "I thought you would understand. You signed me up for the order."

"I did send you to the temple," Mother replied. "You had a gift, but you were not happy. The other kids wouldn't play with you because you were too fast. The temple taught you how to use that speed and kept you from killing yourself with it." Mother paused. "But I didn't send you to the temple so you can run off to another world and disappear forever in the Gate, like your uncle."

"Why won't you trust me?" Fleta asked. "Scoutmaster Shaw says he hasn't ever seen a chimera in the Jungle as fast as me. "I'll be fine."

"Did Shaw recommend you for champion?"

"No," Fleta said. "He wants me on one of the support teams. Scouting, or rescue, though."

"It'd be much easier to have confidence in you if your teachers recommended you."

"The final decision is the High Skald's," Fleta replied. "But that's beside the point. I want to do this for myself. I've spent half my childhood being told that I'm gifted, that I need to be more than a goat herder's daughter, and the other half being told that I'm not a good enough disciple of Thorgarick. I want to know for myself who I am. Am I a goatherder or a champion?"

"It doesn't have to be either-or," Henli clucked. "And you don't have to go to a forest full of monsters in some other realm to find out."

"Look, Hereward's not recommending me. Shaw isn't," Fleta shook her head. "The High Skald probably won't either. But if he does, I want to find out."

"Fine, my little mountain goat," Mother kissed Fleta on the forehead. "But if you are ever in serious danger, you run." 

"I will, Mama."

"Let's go make some dinner."

"But Mama, we want to play with Fleta!" The kids began to bleat in protest.

"Fine," Henli sighed. "Come inside after a minute."

Fleta threw rocks at targets her brothers and sisters chose, wishing she was half as good with a sword as she was throwing rocks around the farm.

The stairs at the front entrance to the Thorgarick temple at Lyntre were just large enough to be awkward. High Skald Terrell said the stairs were large to remind Thorgarick disciples to lengthen their stride and work harder. Disciple Daralis, a close advisor to the Skald, claimed the stairs were large to intimidate visitors. Most disciples and the swornmen of Thorgarick, from soldiers to cooks, only used the front entrance for ceremonial purposes. Fleta sprang lightly up the oversized steps out of habit, forgot the front doors were locked at sundown, and then jogged around to the smaller stairs leading to the dormitory hallway.

The temple was quiet in the evenings. The quiet shocked first-time visitors to the Thorgarick temple. Thorgarick was called the Paragon of Storms, and Thorgarick's disciples had a reputation for being hot-headed and loud. What strangers failed to understand was that Thorgarick gave gifts of physical power—usually—and so Thorgarick's disciples trained brutally all day. By dinner, they were tired. Even the more raucous Thorgaricks went to bed shortly after sundown and woke up before the rooster's call to begin chores and training.

Fleta took more work to tire out, however. Her teachers, like Hereward and Shaw, expected Fleta to use her extra gift to do more exercises and learn five times faster. Mostly, she ran exercises in a tenth of the time of the other students and then got distracted watching the dance of the other student's movements, the waves of grass bending before the wind, or the shape of clouds. Running to the village and back in the evening didn't deplete her energy, either. Tonight, with the Proving of Champions on her mind and everyone seemingly against her, she shuddered at the idea of laying still in bed with her thoughts still racing.

Instead, Fleta padded quietly through the warm glow of the candle-lit corridor toward the Great Hall to look at the skulls of beasts slain in Provings past. Fleta nodded to Hertha on her way. Hertha was a swornwoman—not one of the rare, gifted individuals taken into the temple of Thorgarick as a disciple, but one of the ordinary men and women sworn into the service of Thorgarick. Most people at the temple were swornmen and women like Hertha, head steward; Hereward, captain of the soldiers; and Shaw, scoutmaster. And, of course, the servants, soldiers, and hunters that worked for them. Sometimes, Fleta felt a greater kinship with them than with the disciples.

The familiar voice of High Skald Terrell interrupted her thoughts. The High Skald was the title given to the head disciple of a temple, and as the High Skald over the Gate and the Proving of Champions, Terrell held a place of particular importance. Typically, such a small and remote temple, like the one at Lyntre, would have been eclipsed by the High Skalds of Thorgarick in other cities and kingdoms. One of his many privileges was favoring his disciples in naming a Thorgarick champion. Any other year, at least five temples would have contested the naming, and ten more would have complained. This year, however, had been quieter, and the Thorgarick Champion was Terrell's to name.

Terrell's low, deep whisper pierced through several thick oak doors in the Skald's uncanny way. He was gifted with a voice of thunder, and older swornmen or disciples would tell stories of how Terrell's shout could bowl over a squad of soldiers. When Fleta got her first scrapes and bruises learning to run at full speed, Terrell confided in her that he had many accidents in the first years of training his gift. Apparently, it used to tear up his throat and lungs as well as breaking delicate items around him. Now, the old Skald, gray and long of beard, seldom raised his voice. When he was frustrated, however, a little of the thunder would creep into his voice, causing even a whisper to rumble through air and oak.

"No, she's not ready for the Proving!" Terrell hissed. "Why do you think she's even an option? Alber is clearly more prepared."

Fleta froze and looked behind her, but Hertha was already around the corner to lock up the dormitory entrance.

"No, I don't think this is a higher risk for Alber," he replied to someone in his office. Fleta can run, but that seems to be her only skill."

The conversation continued as Fleta stood frozen in between embarrassment and fury. "Okay, and flying or gliding, or whatever," Terrell replied. "These skills might have great uses outside of the Proving. But the men and women going with the champion can't run or fly like Fleta. Frankly, I don't trust her to bring them back alive."

Fleta rushed off to the great hall, crying. Of course, she had been so ram-skulled that she had only thought about what the Proving meant to her. Of course, she had not considered the swornmen and women who would have to attend her or anything else beyond Terrell naming her as champion. And, of course, none of her teachers, not even the brusque Hereward, had been honest about why everyone was against her going. There would be scouts, soldiers, and a whole camp in the Jungle, hunting monsters for three days. Fleta would forget something, get flustered, and get someone killed.

Everyone else had been right.

The great hall was lit only by moonlight, reflecting off the marble and the enormous, bleached skulls that hung on the walls. The skulls blurred like clouds until Fleta blinked and wiped her eyes. One was birdlike but with fangs. Another bearlike, but with curling horns. The most decrepit was the tough skull armor of a spiked beetle, six feet in height. The largest hung over the High Skald's chair at the front of the hall, a skull over 10 feet long with four tusks thrusting forward like spears. The creature was said to be sixty feet long from head to tail. Creatures unlike any ever seen by the most worldly of traders.

Could Fleta outrace such a creature? Likely. Could she keep it from spearing a scout lagging behind her?

Fleta swore and pounded on an oak table. Everyone was right. Fleta could never have looked her reflection in the eye if she had taken the soldiers and scouts of Thorgarick into the Jungle to die and then ran away. Fleta would have to endure seven more years of teachers telling her she's gifted and incompetent, not living up to her potential. Seven more years of Alber's smug jibes. Or worse, Alber killing the most immense beast in the Proving of Champions and hanging its skull in the great hall to stare at her every meal. And this Proving was unusually quiet; who knows what her competition would be in another seven years. Fleta could easily spend the rest of her life staring at the skull of a tarasque slain by Alber, waiting for a chance that would never come.

Fleta should just give up on being a disciple altogether. She would return to the village with all the kids who wouldn't play games with her growing up. She would have to learn to slow down. She would return to a father, who ordered her to stop doing chores for her brothers and sisters just because she could do in a few minutes what took them all afternoon. It would be easy, in a soul-crushing way, but it would be just as lonely. It was lonely hearing the villagers tell her she was too fast; it was lonely hearing the disciples and teachers tell her that being fast made her special, but fast was not enough.

As Fleta's tears soaked her hands, she collapsed onto finely woven carpets and let the sobs roll out. Seven more years of "maybe next time, maybe not." She couldn't bear the thought of waiting seven more years, almost half her lifetime, to find out whether she was champion or a goatherd, to find out who she was.

Fleta sobbed until her chest settled into a long, shuddering sigh. She rocked back and forth, and then she slowed. A thought formed in her mind, almost like a distant, ghostly whisper.

What if she could offer Terrell a chance at the glory of an unparalleled win for Thorgarick, something no Proving had ever seen before, with no risk to the swornmen and women of Thorgarick?

Fleta raced up the trail to the Thorgarick temple like a desert storm, raising a cloud of dust and spitting gravel with her feet. As the path from the village wound close to a copse of firs, she heard the stretch and snap of a bowstring. Fleta leaned forward and sprinted. She pulled the sides of her navy Valcot tunic loose as she did. The fabric billowed around her to either side, lifting her off the trail. For a moment, Fleta soared alongside the arrow, the ceremony forgotten. The arrow gradually overtook Fleta. She gave into the drag of the air, pulling up and landing in a run just behind the arrow. Fleta plucked the shaft from the air before it slipped away.

When Fleta turned around, she saw the scoutmaster, Shaw, leaning against a trunk. He was wiry, an inch or two taller than most men, with unusually long legs. His face was the sun-weathered leather of an older farmer or a herder, but the stubborn blonde tint to his gray hair and a sardonic smile made him look younger.

"Hello, little fletchling," he smiled. "Not so little anymore, I suppose."

"Shaw." Fleta smiled and nodded with a slight bow. "The ceremony's in just a few minutes."

"I'm on my way up," Shaw said. "They won't notice if an old, useless scoutmaster arrives a little late. I hear the champion this year is a Thorgarick so brave she goes alone on the Proving of Champions." His voice was leaden with sarcasm. Not one of his subtler speeches.

"Is now the time?"

"It's the last chance I've got," Shaw replied. "How did you get Terrell to agree to it? The only thing Hereward and I agreed on was that Alber should have been the champion."

"Thanks for the support," Fleta retorted. "My speed makes me much safer in the Jungle than Alber would be. You said yourself you'd never seen a beast in the Jungle as fast as me. A team would just slow me down."

"I said I hadn't yet seen a beast as fast as you," Shaw said. "The thing about the Jungle is that almost every beast is different. The trees are easily ten times taller than any you've ever seen. That place is not our world. And perhaps," Shaw paused for emphasis. "If you can't protect your swornmen and women, you shouldn't be going in the first place. Being a champion is not just about glory and winning the larch crown."

"Well, the High Skald and Daralis seemed interested in the idea that a lone Thorgarick champion could compete with the other champions and their teams."

"Daralis? Of course. I imagine she has her reasons for bending the High Skald's ear for you," Shaw sighed. "But it's not too late to take me with you. I have a pack ready to go, and I have the experience of a few Provings in various capacities."

Fleta paused. For the past two weeks, she read all the writings the little Thorgarick library had on the Jungle, its plants and beasts, how to navigate, and the exploits of past champions. Fleta would trade all that book knowledge for the help of Shaw in a heartbeat—but Terrell only agreed to name her champion after she offered to go alone. Fleta had no time to change his mind.

"You'll be on the rescue team, right?" Fleta asked. "So if I mess things up royally and don't make it back on my own, you can come get me?"

"Only if you're not in the belly of some beast."

"Thanks," Fleta said. "See you at the ceremony!" And she fled.

The Great Hall of the Thorgarick temple was filled with light from expansive windows and open doors, with high expectations and the deep, sonorous voice of High Skald Terrell, extolling the history and virtues of the Proving. The Great Hall was filled with teams from other temples competing this year and their skalds, champions, and swornmen, and it was filled with the villagers, more than a few of whom were halfway too drunk, all of whom cheered loudly.

The only place in the great hall that was not full was Fleta's table in the front-left corner because she was going on the Proving of Champions alone.

"Before our forefathers' forefathers, the Gates were open. Hordes of monsters and beasts from strange lands came to take our land, and on that day, the Paragons arose to protect us and drive the monsters back," Terrell told the story with a passion befitting his station, but it was a ritual, and Fleta had heard the story a thousand times. Instead of listening to the Skald, she surreptitiously glanced at the other champions, her competitors.

Bertram, the Valcot champion, was surreptitiously looking back. He peered at the other champions and chewed lightly on his bottom lip. His team wore maroon uniforms, a more muted version of the Valcot red that stood for fire and ingenuity. According to Shaw, Bertram was less academic than many of his peers, something of a practical inventor and quick to improvise. He was thin and long of limb with strawberry blonde hair and gray-blue eyes.

In contrast to Bertram, champion Marina sat calm and still as a statue, with dark wavy hair pulled back tightly into a bun, among scouts and soldiers wearing the sea green of Undora. Undora was the Paragon of waves, known for giving gifts of healing to body, mind, and spirit. They were profoundly empathic and emotional, at least according to stories, but Marina hardly looked it. Marina looked much more like what Fleta expected from the Baltirs.

Baltir was the Pagagon of earth, stone, and endurance. The gifted of Baltir were said to be tireless, long-lived, and hardy. Their champion was tan, with curly brown hair and green eyes, high cheekbones raised in a proud, unwavering stare at Terrell as he spoke. His table wore mottled browns that would serve as excellent camouflage. Their tunics were probably Valcot-made. It seemed silly that the Valcots wore red, but the tradition was what it was.

The last order to join the Proving this year was Karatuk, disciples of the Paragon of Hunters and Warriors. Karatuk was one of the minor paragons not associated with natural phenomena or cardinal dispositions or attributes. Karatuk graced disciples with skill in weapons and fighting. Fleta found it challenging to pick out their champion from the soldiers. All had an intensity of focus, the same close-cropped hair, the same uniform.

Terrell had long wanted to send Alber to the Karatuk temple at Seagate for training, but the rivalry between the two orders prevented it. "As stubborn as Baltirs!" Terrell had groused. "We may have more luck waiting for the disagreeable ones to slumber in the ground than waiting on them to change their minds."

With only five orders joining the Proving this year, it was the smallest Proving in a generation. So much the better that no one came from the temples of Hersuf, Mett, or Ursil. Fewer people to watch if Fleta proved NOT to be a champion.

The descending intonation of Terrell's closing speech brought Fleta back to the ceremony.

"—and though we have closed all other Gates, this one Gate we open every seven years, for those who inherit the gifts of the Paragons to prove a new generation of champions is ready to protect the Marble Halls in our darkest times. Let us begin the Proving of Champions."

The High Skald of the Thorgarick temple at Lyntre struck his staff and stood aside for the High Skalds of the other temples to give their Paragon's benedictions to their champions. Fleta hardly paid attention, glancing back to her family, feeling naked in her solitude, only now second-guessing her choice to go alone. She almost forgot to stand when Terrell gave the Thorgarick benediction to her:

"May you go forth, unstoppable as the storm, strong in mind, body, and voice, as quick to your purpose as lightning, as merciful of life-giving rain. May the thunder of your virtue shake loose all unworthiness from yourself, from the earth, and from the heavens, and echo in the memories of our children's children."

It was a dreadfully unfair benediction. The gifted were only given one gift. Perhaps Fleta could learn to be "as quick to her purpose as lightning," but she did not have the strength of body like Alber or voice like Terrell. Perhaps she could put a skull on the wall that her children's children might look at when they came to cheer on future champions. But live up to that benediction? It was almost more terrifying than wandering into the alien Jungle to hunt giant beasts.

The champions and their teams were already leaving the great hall through a side door, down the grand front steps, towards the large marble pavilion that housed the Gate. Fleta followed behind the Karatuks, not feeling her legs striking the earth nor the heat of the late summer sun overhead.

The Gate Pavillion was a broad, marble dome carved in long-weathered relief, resting on gilt, fluted pillars. The competing teams ascended marble stairs along flowing, ornate balustrades and gathered in clusters around the Gate. The Gate itself was marble but much simpler. The columns stood smooth and unfluted, with simple, round bases and caps. The columns supported a marble triangle decorated with ancient symbols for alien realms in an inner triangle carved into a simple, inset surface.

A dim, glowing film of green obscured the view from the Gate, turning the sky above Lyntre into an ocean and the mountains into dark, waving shadows. Above the glowing Gate, one symbol on the triangle above glowed: two snakes, entwined, eating each other's tails. That was the symbol of the Jungle.

Master Shaw stood by the Gate and gave their final instructions.

"The opening of the Gate at Lyntre is a secret kept by this Thorgraick Temple," Shaw began. "But when you cross this marble Gate, you will find yourselves in the Jungle, at a Gate of woven thorns. You have all been given the key to the Gate of Thorns." Shaw held up a thick, pea-sized seed. "Each team will be given five gate seeds. Simply hold the seed before the arch of thorns, and it will open a way back to Lyntre.

"Champions, check your seeds!" Champions shuffled to obey Shaw. "Make sure at least two other individuals have a seed. A team of scouts from each order will enter the Jungle after the champions with additional seeds and will patrol the Jungle within a two-hour march of the Gate. Should there be a problem, the Thorgaricks will organize a rescue team.

"You have three days. All who bring back the head of a beast will be proven champions. The champion who brings back the largest skull will be crowned with a wreath of Larch. May your Paragons guide you."

The teams had already cast lots to determine their order of entry. The Baltir champion smiled, waved to the crowd, and entered the Gate. Even though the distant mountains could be seen through the green glow of the Gate, they became invisible as soon as parts of the champion crossed that film. Fleta could see distant mountains where the front half of The Baltir champion's face should be. And then he was gone. The curious sight sliced through the tight knot of anxiety Fleta felt, if only for a moment.

Bertram, more curious, edged around the Gate to observe the process from a different angle as Karatuks and Undoras stepped through the Gate and disappeared. As the last Undora walked through the Gate, he waved to Valcots in the crowd below and led his people through. Fleta, of course, was last.

Fleta wanted to dash through the Gate, anything to end the stomach-turning anxiety that she had since the Thorgarick benediction. But she managed a twitchy wave to the villagers, who cheered politely, and a stiff walk to the Gate.

"If you have to, run home, skull or no skull," Shaw whispered. "I would like to see you again."

Fleta nodded, a short, sudden jerk of the head, and stepped through the Gate. The Gate was cold like a mountain lake. Her vision went dark as her face pressed through the green film, but she kept walking. As soon as the cold enveloped her, she felt a sudden undertow. Fleta was being pulled, and up and down became meaningless. Without warning, she stood in the deep shadows of trees a thousand feet tall, next to which the grand marble temple at Lyntre would have been but a pebble.

Fleta stood in a tangle of enormous roots, many over ten feet in diameter. Vines and thorns twined around them. The roots formed a small gully, with an arching tangle of roots and thorns twisted into a massive Gate with symbols carved deeply into the flesh of the roots. Whoops, hisses, and shrieks echoed, but all sounded distant. Fleta latched on to the familiar sight of red Valcot uniforms marching. Fleta tried to remember what she had read about the thorn Gate and its position. The Valcots were marching east of the Gate. The last of the Karatuks were climbing out of the gulley in the opposite direction.

An intense desire to follow one or the other order seized Fleta. Fleta had been so confident in her ability to run from beasts, if necessary, that she hadn't realized just how ill-prepared she was to decide what to run toward. She flogged her memories for clues, hoping the Valcots didn't look back and see her standing frozen as a mouse before a snake.

I could simply turn around now and go back out. This would all be over, and I would confirm what everyone's thinking. I'm not ready for this. Fleta rubbed her temples. But then, I would never know if I could been a champion. 

Fleta ran south along the gully. She had no clue which direction to hunt but remembered that beasts avoided the arch. So, any direction away from the arch was fine, and the approach to the Jungle Gate from the south, along the gully, was easiest. Fleta saw the Undora group marching along the gully and blurred by at top speed into a dark sea of trees as tall as mountains.

The Proving of Champions, Chapter 2

In which Fleta runs from a giant monster.

The Stitched RealmsA.N. Sorensen