Chapter Five
The crowd chants words I cannot understand.
The magic that helps me understand the Grandarians (and likely other species) apparently does not include massive crowds. Either way, it is clear they want blood. Except I am not going to give them any, especially my own!
“Stand here, Samantha Moon. It is important that you do not move. Something very bad will happen if you try to move early.”
I nod, not wanting to test the extent of the nefarious magic that controls these Gladiator Games; instead, I put my game face on, though I have no intention to participate in these Games.
Positioned before me is a table lined with an array of human-sized weapons.
Plenty of smaller choices, too: knives, short swords, brass knuckles, and other weapons that favor speed and precision over brute strength.
Of course, I could wield the heaviest broadswords and battle axes just as easily. Conan-style.
Most important is a glass of water. I hope Grandarian water reacts to my sword magic as surely as it does on Earth.
If worse comes to worse, I could always use a regular sword, though nothing compares to my lightweight and indestructible ice sword.
Well, maybe the Devil Killer does. Would probably be nice to have that sucker right about now.
Moments later, Baltazar appears through the curtain, floating calmly to me, though his eyes bespeak the excitement of nerves that he clearly feels. Maybe he doesn’t want to see me die?
“Your opponent is ready, Samantha Moon. Are you ready?”
“I suppose so.”
“Remember, you are to keep the fight on the pitch. Please, no flying and certainly don’t interact with the royal family, who are sitting in a protected box at mid-field.”
“Er, I won’t.”
“Please don’t. It will not end well.”
I mull over his warning, especially his last words. Who isn’t it going to end well for? Me? Or the royal family? And why did he tell me exactly where to find them? Hmm.
Well, I have interacted twice now with the Origin of all Life. As far as I can tell, it doesn’t care one way or the other whether I live or die. I decide we are on reasonably good terms.
But Baltazar’s choice of words sticks with me.
On the pitch.
He could have said, “In the arena, or today, or in the Games.”
But he hadn’t. Nope.
On the pitch.
That is awfully specific. I glance up toward the open sky above the arena.
I already know that a dome of magic keeps fighters from leaving the arena.
So, then, how could taking to the air save me?
And what is the deal about mentioning the royal family?
Yes, I know we are fighting for those psychopaths.
Was Baltazar warning me... or pointing me toward my first move?
“Helluva motivational speech,” I say. “Okay, let’s do this.”
“Oh, we will be doing this, Samantha Moon. The king wants blood, and so do his subjects. They will have your blood, in fact.”
“Or not.”
“We’ll see.” He wraps a long cloak around him and is escorted off the pitch between two massive guards, as big or bigger than Timrick the Fallen.
And with that, the crowd erupts in cheers; somehow, they’ve been signaled.
I am standing just inside the pitch of the great arena, the same place I arrived on the day before.
The stands, once empty, now throb with energetic life.
I look up and to the right and, not surprisingly, recognize the very being who invaded my mind at my daughter’s wedding weeks ago.
He sits on a golden throne, which emanates a shimmering light, and within that light is a small entourage of other beings, all dressed as regally as he: two teenage kids, a woman, another male as big or bigger than Timrick, and a smaller being that looks identical to Baltazar. Another wizard, likely.
Meanwhile, Timrick steps back into an assumed position on the pitch, watching me closely. Above and around me I sense the magic that contains the arena, magic that will force us to fight to the death.
The sick bastards.
Across the pitch, maybe fifty yards away, a diminutive warrior paces in tight circles, shooting me the occasional dirty look.
At least, I assume it is a dirty look. Her face is so tiny it is hard to be sure.
Admittedly, the being is so far away and so small that I can’t quite make out all her features, and that is with my enhanced vampire vision!
It is obvious she is female, tiny, and quite possibly furious. She grips a short sword in each hand.
Baltazar, who seems to do everything around these Games, strides slowly to the middle of the pitch and stops roughly halfway between us. Near the pacing wood sprite sits a small table, just like mine, though hers is laden with much smaller weapons.
I am not surprised Baltazar knows our preferred weapons. He has apparently read the energy of our lives and knows a great deal about each of us. Which also means the king and his merry men likely keep armories stocked with every imaginable weapon.
That said, I don’t need any of them.
Water will suffice.
Baltazar has known that, too. A simple cup of water waits on my table. I glance toward the wood sprite’s arsenal. No cup. Apparently, she has no use for one.
The wizard pauses in the middle of the pitch and turns slowly, arms extended.
As he does, the crowd, remarkably, grows quiet, though a buzz still emanates from them.
He says something about the games commencing this morning, and he hopes there will be much blood and the rendering of body parts.
This is as good as a bomb being lobbed into the crowd. Basically, they freak the eff out.
Baltazar first points at the wood sprite, then at me, and asks again if we are ready. I answer yes, though I can’t hear what the sprite says in return. I assume it is a ‘yes,’ because Baltazar chops both arms down and shouts, “Begin!”
Instantly, my inner alarm screams.
The little hellion rockets at me like a bat out of hell, her two short swords spinning in her tiny hands like mini propellers. Pretty sure her hands rotate independently of her wrists.
I don’t know, and I don’t have time to find out.
I twist away from the flashing blades and catch sight of the miniature wings buzzing on her back, which explains how she launched herself at me so fast. I’ve faced dark fairies before. This isn’t new.
I sprout my wings and spring into the air. My wings snap open as I reach a hand for the waiting glass of water. The liquid answers my call, racing toward me before hardening into my trusted ice sword.
Meanwhile, the wood sprite comes at me like a murderous little prop plane, the reddish sunlight flashing off her twirling blades.
Her short swords are, in fact, no longer than steak knives, but she wields them with terrifying precision. One blade flashes toward my eyes while the other darts for the tendons behind my knee.
The ice sword flashes down, catching the first blade with a ringing crack that shoots white frost through the air. The second blade skims my thigh, slicing through my jeans and drawing blood.
The crowd roars; apparently, they like blood.
The sprite hisses at me through tiny, pointed teeth.
Her wings are a blur behind her, translucent and veined like leaves.
Her skin glows faintly green beneath bark-brown armor stitched together from thorns, beetle shells, and what looks suspiciously like the rib bones of something mouse-sized and very dead.
She screams and launches herself toward my face, both swords cutting in a tight silver wheel. I lean back, but feel one blade nick my cheek. I bring my dark angel wings around me in a hard snap. The gust blasts her backward.
She recovers instantly, banking off a column of shimmering blue light that marks one edge of the arena. The crowd gasps as she kicks off the invisible barrier and comes rocketing back at me.
Fast little shit.
I drop flat onto my back, my wings splayed out under me as her blades slice through the space where my throat had been. Then I kick up, flip backward onto my feet, and bring the ice sword around in a wide arc.
She darts under it, of course.
I am beginning to see why she is nearly unbeatable. One foot tall. Maybe less. Fighting her is like trying to duel a possessed hummingbird with car keys.
Next, she slashes at my ankle. I hop over her, twisting in midair with a little help from my wings. I land behind her and stab the ice sword into the sand between us. Frost races outward in a jagged circle, turning the floor white and brittle.
She slips.
Right, it is a trick I discovered when practicing with Brett, my new son-in-law.
He had wanted to duel me as a velociraptor, the dinosaur he could shape shift into at will.
Turns out his claws are as hard as steel.
It had been quite the sparring session, and I’m sure we looked wicked cool.
A winged vampire fighting a nine-foot-tall velociraptor, who blocks and parries my sword attacks.
At one point, I had driven my sword in the ground, causing ice to form, and causing him to fall on his thick rump. Useful. And kinda funny.
Well, it isn’t so funny now, though definitely useful.
I could have ended it there. I could have pinned her with the flat of my blade, knocked her out, crushed her with one hand, or simply removed her cute little head, which I would never do.
She is safe with me. And I think she knows I hold back.
Her eyes widen with surprise, perhaps waiting for the death blow that never comes; instead, I wink at her.
And let her roll away. The crowd boos.
High above, in the ridiculous royal box next to the golden throne, Baltazar leans forward over the railing. “There will be no winking or mercy, Samantha Moon. You risk being struck down where you stand.”
“Blowhard,” I mumble.
“I heard that! Get to it, Samantha Moon.”
Get to what, I wonder? The dismemberment and mayhem? Or something else?
Meanwhile, the confused sprite circles me at about waist high, studying me, perhaps looking for a weakness she might not be able to see; after all, I’m pretty tough too.
Her chest heaves with little gasps, her wings flutter uncertainly, her twin swords (or knives) held in a perfect cross before her.
She knows. She knows I spared her. Worse, she knows the crowd knows something went wrong.
“You insult me,” she snaps.
“I’m trying to save your life.”
“My life belongs to them.”
“I will save us both.”
“No, fool! They will kill us both.”
“We’ll see.”
Then she attacks again, and this time she gives the crowd the fight they hope to see.
She comes low, zigzagging across the sand so fast she seems to appear and vanish between heartbeats.
I meet her with the ice sword, sparks and frost exploding each time our blades clash.
She strikes high, low, high again, then spins behind my calf and stabs for the back of my knee.
I pivot away and bring my sword down hard into the sandy pitch.
The blade hits inches from her and explodes in a geyser of ice shards. The blast lifts her off her feet and throws her backward. She tumbles end over end, hits the ground, rolls, and springs up with both swords raised.
The crowd loses its mind. They assume I will cleave her in half. I do not. Again, I show her mercy.
Confused again, she flies straight at my chest. I catch her with the flat of my blade.
Not the edge. No, never the edge. The impact runs up my arm.
She slides along the now-icy surface, claws scraping, then kicks up and flies over my shoulder.
A tiny blade bites into the flesh between my not-quite-attached wings.
“Ow!” I bark. “You little shit.”
Distracted, she lands on my right wing. Wonderful. Soon, tiny, clawed feet run up my back and along shoulders. I reach back, but she avoids my hand, likely jumping over it, and scrambles toward my neck with terrifying speed. She is going to slice my neck.
Not that it would kill me.
But still... ouch!
So I throw myself forward and roll. She ends up in my arms. Back on my feet, I fling her away like a fishmonger at Seattle’s Pike Place Market. She tumbles end over end before finally righting herself with her wings.
I rise slowly, breathing hard for effect.
My cheek is bleeding. So is somewhere in the middle of my back.
My thigh burns, too. Her magic swords are keeping me from healing as quickly as I am accustomed to, though I do feel my skin trying to close.
Still, I can feel the blood dropping too.
Something I’m very much not accustomed to.
The audience likes blood. And, apparently, so does the stadium, whatever that means.
The sprite spins around and faces me, growing. She is so stinkin’ cute it hurts.
Then, with a shriek that could have cracked glass, the cute little bundle turns into something hellish as she launches herself at me again.
I meet her in the center of the arena with an overhead strike that would have split a horse in two.
The strike misses her by a whisper and instead smashes into the sand.
Ice erupts upward in a glittering wall between us.
She bursts through it first, both blades crossing toward my face. I stumble backward, making the move big and ugly, selling panic to the cheap seats. She presses the attack, raining blows against my sword so quickly that I am certain I am about to lose a finger or two.
Spoiler alert: I don’t.
Frost snaps off my blade in white sparks. She even drives me back one step. Then another. The crowd chants now. I can’t understand the collective language, but I understand the meaning.
Kill! Kill! Kill!
Blood! Blood! Blood!
Weirdos. I let my sneaker dig into the sand.
Let my balance go, warble on purpose. Mostly, I let the little sprite see the obvious opening.
Instinctively, as a warrior, she takes it, and flies at my throat with both swords thrust forward.
With the crowd fully engaged and the wizard and royalty hopefully buying into the assault, I spread my wings wide and drop my ice sword.
Like catching a buzzing fly with chopsticks, I catch the wood sprite by her tiny ankles with a perfectly timed swipe.
The crowd goes nuts, though they are confused. I beat my wings hard and rise quickly into the air, higher and higher.
“You will return to the pitch, Moon Warrior!” barks Baltazar, his voice magically enhanced.
Miraculously, the little sprite stops struggling. Her swords somehow slip back into their little sheaths on her back, and she goes almost completely limp. It reminds me of how sharks sometimes enter a trance when turned upside down. Maybe wood sprites have a similar quirk.
I continue flying up.