Flash Fiction Friday: Week #42

Amy C over at Romance Book Wyrm and Dottie over at Tink's Place have come up with the idea for a Monday Morning Flash Fiction challenge. Each Monday a new picture prompt will be posted and if you choose to participate - you post your story on Friday - 350 words, give or take. 


And here is picture prompt #42:

The Final Challenge
By Michelle Greathouse

Lyral removed her helm and surveyed the damage.  Bodies littered the ground, some dead, some dying.  She was the cause of it all.  Change was hard for most.  Lyral wished for change, for peace - but the only way to obtain that change was by force.

Ironic to think that peace could only be obtained through death.

She walked over to a patch of soil, now loose and softened by the churning of many feet, and drove her blade deep - removing as much of the blood from the blade as possible.  Not the best way to treat a blade such as Varise, but effective all the same.  

Lyral was covered in blood, some her’s - most not.  She had fought ten warriors this day.  One after the next.  As soon as one dropped another was sent to take her place.  Lyral was given no quarter, no reprieve.  If she wanted change badly enough - she’d have to earn it.  No one was going to give it to her.

She eased her weight onto her left leg and felt the pull of her calf muscle, that was going to hurt on the morrow.  The cut across her right arm had finally stopped bleeding, a quick inspection proved it was not too deep.  Just another scar to add to her collection.  Minor cuts and bruises marred her body - but she could live with those.

If she survived this final challenge.

Lyral waited as her final opponent casually walked across the vast expanse of dirt.  Tall, she stood nearly six foot - topping Lyral by just a hair.

“Very impressive, I would expect nothing less from you.”  Darva inclined her head.  “You’ve incapacitated some of my most valiant warriors.”

Lyral knew every one of those warriors.  Some she called friend.  All were family of the heart.  That she had to hurt them, kill them, was more proof that Darva was no longer fit to lead.    

She smiled.  “Shall we proceed?”

Darva placed her helm over a head of copper curls that normally hung to her waist.  For this battle, as all others, she had it braided into a single thick plait down her back.  

Lyral secured her helm over her own auburn hair and took a deep, steadying breath.  She turned and faced her last challenger - in a fight to the death.

She sent a silent prayer to her goddess and prepared to kill her mother.

The End
Word Count: 435

I have missed the last three weeks of Flash and apologize.  May was a very hectic month. :)

I hope you enjoyed this one.