Chapter Three
I go straight for the manual sitting open on a sort of rustic-looking table that might have been made by mountain trolls or Hobbits. Hmm, unless they are the same thing. It sports thick, heavy legs, and is slightly off-kilter. Typical Hobbits, or so I imagine.
Though I’m a fairly slow reader, I am able to work my way through the crazy manual quickly enough with the help of some graphic imagery of decapitations and the severing of limbs.
In essence, it explains what I can and can’t do during the battles.
Apparently, there really is no escape until the last man, woman, or alien is standing.
Size doesn’t matter. In fact, any size of warrior could face another combatant of any size.
It really comes down to luck of the draw.
A contestant could use any natural gifts they’ve been bestowed with or have developed throughout the course of their life.
No combatant can enlist the aid of another.
It is truly every man for themselves. The winner will receive a prize of immense value suitable to the winner’s home world.
In my case, I would be given many tons of gold.
Nice, but there would be a lot of death and mayhem between me and the gold.
Most warriors have to fight their way through a minimum of ten opponents.
Included in the manual are pictures of the many combatants for this year’s Games.
Each is bigger than the next, and if not bigger, then certainly uglier.
Some seem to stand nearly twenty-feet tall!
One hulking monster has six arms, another two giant legs, one even has two heads, another sports the head of a praying mantis.
Most are roped in what appears to be the alien version of muscle, and many more are scarred and very clearly battle-tested.
And there I am in one of the pictures, wearing black jeans, a white t-shirt and sneakers, looking adorable and tiny.
But not the smallest. Indeed, there are various fairy-like creatures with wings who look far smaller and, yes, even more adorable.
As I scan the pictures of those I might find myself squaring off against tomorrow, one thing becomes abundantly clear: I have to shut these games down, once and for all, one way or another.
I certainly don’t want to kill a creature I have no grudge against, and it is a crime against the universe that all these creatures (me included) are snatched from their home planets just to entertain a royal psychopath.
No, I am not afraid of any of these beasts.
Nor am I afraid of dying. But I am afraid I might never see my kids again, and that is a sucky thought, to say the least, though mostly it pisses me off.
But first, I need more intel. For starters, who is this king and how can I reach him? Once I reach him, I will be lodging a formal complaint, along with my foot up his ass.
Next, I look for any information I can find on the planet of Grandar, but nothing is mentioned in the manual, nor is there anything that resembles a computer in my suite.
So, I stroll over to the heavy door and try the heavy iron handle.
There is no give. Not even a jiggle. I throw a shoulder into it but nothing happens.
Next, I reach out with my mind, pushing my consciousness through the door, and there, standing just off to one side, is a large humanoid ‘man’ dressed in dull, leather armor and wielding a battle ax.
He stands at attention, though he looks more bored than anything.
His too-wide eyes stare off into the middle distance and look glazed over.
Seeing where he stands indicates where I should position myself for maximum effect. So, I get up and move to the side of the door. I sit down directly opposite from the guard, with only a wall between us.
Facing the wall, I reach through it with my mind, searching for his.
Shortly, I find it. I don’t know how much of this room is monitored by Baltazar or others.
But so far, I haven’t raised any alarms, and so I proceed, slipping deeper into the guard’s mind.
Luckily, he is mortal and so his mind is not closed off to me.
Do you speak English? I ask him telepathically.
Of course not.
Sounds like English to me.
A spell has been placed on everyone who enters the arena. Whatever language is spoken, the listener hears it in their native tongue.
Good to know.
I next command him not to act any different, and certainly not to raise any alarms. As of yet, I haven’t dared force the guard to try to free me. That is, if he could even do such a thing, which I doubt. Baltazar has made it clear that he, and only he, could release me from my magical prison.
What is your name?
Timrick the Fallen.
Why the Fallen?
I was once the Head Guard here at the Games. Now I’ve been reduced to door duty.
What did you do?
I showed mercy on a combatant who tried to escape.
Mercy how?
I was supposed to kill the little quiller, but I imprisoned him instead.
What’s a quiller?
A little creature with horns and hoofed feet. It was at a distinct disadvantage in the Games.
Then why was it chosen to fight?
Mistakes are sometimes made, as best as I can determine.
Do you think my being here is a mistake?
Earlier, I saw your profile picture in the official program. You appeared weak and small. I cannot fathom how you could defeat the bigger, stronger warriors.
How are mistakes made?
The choosing of contestants is not an exact science, from what I understand; then again, I don’t know the ins and outs of the process. Only Baltazar does.
So this quiller thing attempted to escape, and you were told to kill it, but you didn’t?
That about sums it up.
You did not wish to kill the creature.
I did not.
But you did so anyway.
No, the creature is safely in our deepest cells, far away from prying eyes.
You gave up your position for the little feller.
I did, yes, and it cost me a lot.
You lost your station.
And a digit.
Digit?
A finger.
Show me, I telepathically command him.
He untucks his hand, which had been inside a fold of his leather armor. One of his stubby fingers is indeed missing. The one at the far end, likely the equivalent of a pinkie.
Did it hurt to have it removed?
Very much so.
Did it make you angry to have the digit removed?
‘Twas a fitting punishment for my malfeasance.
Because you didn’t immediately kill a lesser creature?
Yes. ‘Twas just a digit. I’ve got five more.
You live on a harsh planet.
It is all I know.
Yet your heart went out to the little creature.
It did, until I was shown the error of my ways.
Is it in error to question a cruel directive?
In our world, yes.
Sometimes in my world, too.
Then we are not so different.
Please pull up an image of a quiller.
Pull up?
Think of one.
He does, popping into his mind instantly, and it is indeed adorable.
It is a cross between the cute version of gremlins and a troll toy, all fur and a sweet, pudgy face.
How anyone could order the execution of such cuteness is beyond me, surely akin to clubbing baby seals.
I guess there are bullies and bastards everywhere.
I fight to control myself, knowing there is only so much I can do in my present circumstances.
Is Baltazar monitoring our conversation?
You are immortal, correct?
Correct.
Then I don’t believe he can know what we are saying.
I nod to myself thinking back to my first meeting with the wizard.
So Baltazar hadn’t so much read my mind as to have guessed when I summoned the single flame.
Is implanting an image the same as reading a mind?
Or a neat magical trick? That forgetful spell had something to do with it. Somehow it lessened my defenses.
Is Baltazar the most powerful wizard here on Grandar?
Yes, he is.
What can he do?
Summon fire. Stop hearts. Force one’s sword into one’s own heart. Split a man in two. Twist a man like a corkscrew. Create pits to fall into, then permanently seal them over.
Gotcha. He can kill creatively.
Oh, yes.
Can he kill from afar?
Meaning?
Should I escape, could he strike me dead from elsewhere? Say, miles away?
I have not seen that. Then again, no one has ever escaped before.
Doesn’t seem so hard.
Well, the locks are magically enhanced, same with the doors, walls, and ceilings.
There’s literally no way to tunnel out, break out, or climb out.
There are no weaknesses in your cell. Or in this facility.
Some say the Dark One himself lives far below, and that the arena itself sprang from his very body.
Dark One?
Our Devil.
Ah. And he lives below the arena?
It is said that not a door opens that escapes the Dark One’s notice. Baltazar’s, too.
They work together?
I believe so. All to provide blood for the Dark One, or so I’ve heard.
Does Baltazar drink blood, too?
Not that I’ve seen.
So, if I were to escape...
You would be caught and killed, likely by me.
What is the best way to escape this planet?
Win the games.
And if I should choose not to fight?
You would be struck down. Again, likely by me. Or Baltazar.
Is there a weakness in this arena? Is there a space that I can crawl through, run through, or fly into?
You can fly?
Yes. I think.
Because now I’m not so sure. So I decide to test my wings.
I stand smoothly from my position against the wall, give myself a little space, and summon my dark wings.
Once they appear, I flap them gently, lifting off the floor a few feet.
I retract them and settle back down. A black feather drifts down, then disintegrates before my eyes.
Yes, I can fly. You will keep this to yourself.
Understood. How fast can you fly?
I can fly faster than I can run.
You stand a chance, then, as long as they don’t magically tether you. I have seen that before. So, if you decide to fly in battle, do it only once and surprise them, then keep on flying somewhere safe.
Where is safe?