Story: The Tournament

(This is another fiction piece I had lying about and thought I'd inflict on the world.)

Granmak killed the Orcish chieftain with his Sword of Rubies and then turned to face the others with his eyes aflame and his teeth bared in a savage grin. As he had expected, they hung back , reluctant to face one who had bested their leader inside two heartbeats.  “I am in a hurry.” he told them through gritted teeth. “Stand aside or by all the gods in the heavens your dying shall be hard and slow.”
  The loathsome grey skinned creatures exchanged glances that were brief but full of meaning. Then as one, they put up their swords and melted back into the forest.
  Granmak used the dead orc’s tunic to cleanse his blade and slid it back into it’s jewelled sheath with a muttered curse. “I grow old.” He said to no one in particular. “To let a full score of orcs come upon me unawares. “
 He was distracted, he knew, by thoughts and dreams newly arisen. One thought in particular: The Tournament. How ironic it would be if he had been slain on  a muddy forest trail before he could claim his rightful, everlasting glory. Still more ironic if daydreaming of said glory got him killed.
  He let his mind calm and then, when he was once more in harmony with himself and his surroundings, Granmak resumed his interrupted journey.

 There is a longer and greater tale here if I chose to tell it. Of how Granmak first heard of the tournament in a squalid dungeon and his escape. Of the long journey by sea and mountain trail and (briefly) dragon. There are fights won and the strange hazards of the Forest of Twilight bested. Old friends turned enemies and bitter enemies become reluctant travelling companion and tales aplenty born upon every step of the quest.
  That is not the tale I can tell. Not here and not now.
   Suffice it to say that Granmak proved his worth to enter the Tournament simply by arriving at the Citadel of Chains, where it was to be held.
  He strode in through the gate with his head high and his muscles aching from the climb up the White Mountain. A masked servitor asked his name and, satisfied with the answer, led him through to a great chamber at the heart of the Citadel.
  A hundred seats had been set here, and in each one was a hero of great renown. Set before each man or woman was a mirror of silver set in a curious frame of dark wood and steel.
The Master of the Citadel bade Granmak take a seat. “When the gong rings for the second time the Tournament shall begin.  You shall travel to a strange and perilous world and there your wits and skill shall be tested as never before and all your prior feats shall be as nothing.”
  “It is why I am here.” Granmak replied simply.
“Then good luck”

 The gong rang once and the champions ceased to chatter amongst themselves and began to gaze into the mirrors before them. The air was still, expectant, taut with barely repressed excitement.
Once more the gong crashed and as it’s echoes died away Granmak watched the mirror before him swirl with colour then clear into a view of another world.
 The world fell away into darkness...

  He opened his eyes and stared about him in wonder. The room he was in was like nothing he had seen before, all bright colours and strange shapes and the faintest scent of pine. Light streamed in through a gaping hole in the wall but somehow the wind was kept outside. Suddenly a small black gewgaw came to life on the stool beside the bed and chirruped incessantly until he punched it into oblivion. Rising, he threw aside his blanket (thick yet so light) and clumsily donned the clothing he found in a cupboard. It felt strange, but not uncomfortable and it certainly smelt better than his old leathers.
  After a moment of panic when he realised he was weaponless for the first time in almost thirty years, Granmak went to find food. He found it in another cupboard, white as ice and as cold …but how to cook it?
  After all these years of laughing at death, Granmak began to comprehend that in this strange place he found himself, not a single one of his hard won skills would be of use.
He grinned at the empty air. “A challenge at last.” he cried. And then he began slowly, clumsily, to make his breakfast.

The Master of the Citadel sat atop his throne, contemplating the rows of transfixed men and women before him, a small smile flickering across his lips .
  There was a sudden  explosion of movement as one of the heroes convulsed, screamed and was still. Yal the Archer had come to the end of his road at last.
The Master sat back and closed his eyes.
“I suppose I should have warned them not to step out in front of cars.”