Chapter Seven
I don’t do much magic, but I can lob fireballs with the best of them.
I do so now. Not at the king, nor at his family, but to the side of them.
The balls explode, igniting carpet and tapestries alike.
Seeing how vulnerable the royal family is makes me reconsider my plan.
Luring the beastie up here will not end well for any of them.
And one of their sons is a pudgie little fellow who looks simple and innocent and not very excited to be at the Games.
I can almost imagine him with a Gameboy in his hand.
So, I turn and meet the beastie in mid-air, where it flies on massive, leathery wings. It could have been a dragon, except for the fact that it looks nothing like one. I’ve seen my share of dragons, and you, sir, are no dragon.
Its long jaws snap shut where my head had been a heartbeat earlier.
I twist hard to port, my wings beating furiously as one claw the size of a canoe paddle rakes through the empty air near my heart.
Those talons look forged from black steel.
I have no intention of discovering whether they are as sharp as they look.
I slash with my ice sword as we cross paths.
The blade bites into one armored foreleg, leaving behind little more than a white scar across thick scales.
The beastie doesn’t even seem to notice.
Instead, it wheels with astonishing agility for something the size of a VW bus and comes back at me, both claws and both forearms extended.
I tuck in my wings and drop beneath the attack, feeling the rush of displaced air buffet my face as those enormous talons clap together just above my head with enough force to have crushed a space shuttle.
Before it can recover, I shoot upward beneath its belly.
Soft underbelly? No such thing with this thing.
Its scales continue from snout to tail, each one overlapping the next in rows of black armor plates.
I drive my shoulder into its ribs instead, using vampire strength rather than finesse.
The impact knocks the beastie sideways. It lets out a furious bellow that echoes throughout the arena and sends thousands of spectators jumping to their feet in approval.
Great. At least the crowd is happy; apparently, I am finally giving them the show they want.
Meanwhile, the king is roaring with anger.
Sorry, pal, I think, as I spin away from the beastie who has rocketed toward me with a kind of supernatural propulsion. Some of us have bigger problems, no thanks to your psychotic blood lust.
The infuriated king points at me and shouts something in his native tongue, something I am too far away to understand. The little wizard leaps to his feet as well, swiping his hand to the side. The flames from my fireballs are immediately extinguished.
And as the wood sprite leaps onto her wings from below and races through the air, buzzing furiously, I launch one more fireball in the vicinity of the same empty space near the throne.
As the wizard turns his attention to it as well, and while the whole of the royal viewing box is preoccupied with it, I flap my wings hard and shoot through the air directly at the royal family.
My inner alarm suddenly erupts. I see why: dozens of nearby archers have taken aim at me, but the scene within the king’s private viewing box is so chaotic that no one gives them the command to fire.
So, I adjust my focus toward what I assume is the king’s youngest son: a chubby lad dressed regally in purples and golds, his fingers and neck adorned in thick jewelry and gems. The kid is also furthest from the many hulking bodyguards, themselves preoccupied with the small fires.
Before I truly know what I am doing, before I can stop myself from straight-up kidnapping a kid, I do exactly that.
I snatch the boy from the gilded balcony as his mother screams and the king roars.
The closest bodyguard and his gleaming broadsword are too late.
The little wizard, fresh from putting out the fire, is also too late.
The kid is heavier than I expected, but that is okay. I have two free hands and these dark wings of mine can lift a Honda Civic.
I hold him by his thick wrist as he kicks and fights me, beating at me with his free hand.
His punches land harder than I would have expected from such a young warlord, given that he is hanging free in space.
I don’t know as yet what I plan to do with him, but Baltazar’s story of the royal family being immune to the spell cast over the pitch stands out to me as both an unusual anecdote and as something to seriously consider.
Which I do now.
I just have to make sure not to drop the kid.
I next fly back over the center of the arena’s pitch as the kid hangs from one beefy arm.
The wood sprite has settled back to the ground and paces with her fists at her waist, her spinning knives once again having been sheathed at her back.
She looks perturbed that there will be no fighting at the moment.
Maybe she thinks my little act of rebellion reflects poorly on her, and that the powers that be will exact their revenge on her instead.
Except I happen to be dangling the powers that be’s son from one hand.
If they want him back in one piece, they will probably do well to hear me out. Not that I have any intention of hurting the overgrown Harry Styles wannabe.
I note the archers haven’t yet loosened their arrows.
That is a smart move, as my welcome package gives no indication that royalty on this planet are immortals.
Meaning, there is a very real chance the prince could get hit and killed.
They very obviously don’t want that to happen.
And wow, Baltazar almost seems to be smiling over there in the royal box.
I get a very real sense that he approves this breakout, which is crazy.
Then again, hasn’t he been feeding me clues all along?
Maybe, but I am not home free yet. Not by a long shot.
Not with a powerful wizard before me, archers around me, and a magic dome over me.
Meanwhile, I flap languidly to and fro, getting a feel for the airspace up here, ever alert to my inner alarm which, remarkably, remains silent during this time of crisis.
“What’s the plan, Sam?” I ask myself aloud as the kid continues to struggle. Worse, he uses his other hand to dig his blunt nails into my wrist. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, kid,” I tell him above the din, which has only grown louder with what I assume is my surprising move up here.
“Screw you, lady!” he barks in an accent that sounds like Timrick’s and Baltazar’s combined, though higher in pitch. Yeah, definitely a teenager.
“Well, it’s a long drop if you should fall.”
“Baltazar wouldn’t let me fall. Look, he’s spread a net beneath us, and it’s rising up. He’s going to capture you, and then stake you to the ground for the beasties to eat. And don’t you dare try to teleport. I saw what happens when people teleport. So gross!”
“Then help me get out of here.”
“No.”
I mull over my predicament. “Do you like adventure?”
“My dad invented adventure!”
“Um, I’m sure he did. But aren’t you forever shielded behind charms and magic?” I say, taking a stab in the dark here, “Never allowed to see the real world?”
“The real world sucks.”
“The real world is awesome, at least on my world it is.”
“Well, if your world is so great, then why did you come here to die?”
“I was kidnapped from my home by Baltazar.”
“Kidnap? What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means I was forced to come here and fight.”
“But you’re not fighting! You are running away like a wimp! They will make you fight, woman!”
“They can try. I do not wish to kill anyone.”
“But aren’t you going to kill me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I do not enjoy killing. Especially innocents.”
“I am hardly innocent. Just this morning, I ordered my chambermaid to be killed for coughing in my presence.”
“Okay, maybe I should kill you, then. That was a jerk move.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I feel kind of bad. And hold on, how would you kill me?”
“I’m not going to kill you.”
“You could drop me.”
“Nope.”
“You could bash me against that roof.”
“I don’t think so, unless you keep scratching me.”
“I tried scratching you, but you barely bleed, and look, your skin isn’t even scratched anymore. It’s all healed. The Dark One won’t be pleased.”
“What does that mean?”
“The Dark One demands blood. You are a witch!”
“I am a vampire. An energy vampire, to be exact.”
“I am ready to die, vampire. Drop me down over those rocks over there. It will be quicker that way.”
“Those rocks are outside the arena. I am blocked from going there.”
“True. But I am not. The shield gives way for me.”
Is that what Baltazar had been hinting at?
“Why does the shield give way to you?” I ask, noting the commotion in the royal box. All fingers and eyes are pointed at us. As of yet, my inner alarm remains silent. No need for panic.
“In case one of the royal subjects accidentally falls into the pit. That’s what we call it. It happened once, long ago, and my cousin was forced to fight.”
“Why?”
“Once in the pit, there is no leaving it except through combat and except by winning. Death or winning are the only ways out of pit.”
“So Baltazar fixed the problem?”
“Yes. Now, if a royal accidentally falls into or wanders onto the pit, they can escape without fighting.”
“So the shield that surrounds the pit, above and around...”
“Doesn’t affect me.”
“What about me?” I ask.
“Not sure. I guess we’ll have to see.”
“Do you still want me to drop you on those rocks over there?”
“Hold up, hold up. Let’s not be too rash here, lady. I don’t want to die. I assumed you would kill me.”
“Why?”
“That’s kind of what we do here. Everyone dies, the bloodier the better.”
“Because your Dark One loves blood?”
“Yes, of course. I don’t care for it myself. But my dad sure loves it! It makes him happy to please the Dark One.”
“Why?”
“The Dark One is kind of like our god here. He can answer prayers and grant wishes. But for a price.”
“Blood is the price?”
“But of course.”
“And your dad provides a lot of it.”
“So much blood!”
“Not his, of course,” I say.
“Of course not, silly goose! Never his.”
Though I don’t have any intention of dropping the kid on the rocks or anywhere else, for that matter, I use him as my ticket out of the stadium just as the net rushes up at me.
I angle up and away, and with a pop, fly out through the opaque, crackling magical energy dome.
I appear over what might qualify as a parking lot, though this space is packed with horse-and-donkey drawn wagons, chariots, and animals of all shapes and sizes, and numbers of legs and heads!
“What will happen to the wood sprite?” I ask the royal teenager.
“She will be killed very publicly. Probably beheaded.”
I cringe. “Why?”
“Rules are rules. To advance, she must kill her opponent. You are not dead, so she failed.”
“You guys suck,” I grumble and turn back toward the arena.
“Wait! Where are you going? You just escaped! Why are we going back?”
I get the sense that the young prince is enjoying all this. Probably the first time in his life he’s ever flown or even been out of the arena.
“I can’t let them hurt her,” I say.
“So what? She’s just a wood sprite.”
“She’s a living creature.”
“Yeah, so? Everyone dies.”
“But she doesn’t have to die today and so gruesomely.”
“But the Dark One prefers gruesome. More blood!”
“Well, not her. And not today.”
“But why?”
“I like her. She’s cute and spunky and wants to live.”
“But she tried to kill you.”
“She was forced to fight, like all your warriors are.”
“Some like to fight. Then again, I am told it is all they know. For some, it is a great honor to fight for my father.”
“Well, I think these fights are cruel.”
A similar popping sound erupts as we reenter the arena.
The waiting net is still there, though already fading from existence.
Below it, half a dozen guards have the little wood sprite stretched out on the pitch.
Heavy iron chains pin her tiny wrists and ankles to iron stakes driven deep into the ground.
She fights like a cornered hellcat, hissing, kicking, and biting anything foolish enough to come within reach.
Refusing to fight is, of course, a capital offense in this godforsaken place.
With the prince still dangling from one hand and my ice sword in the other, I bank hard, slip through a widening gap in the dissolving net, and dive.
The guards scatter like field mice beneath a hawk. My ice sword flashes once, then twice, and the iron chains fall away in pieces.
I toss the ice sword aside and scoop the little warrior up by her ankles.
Just like before, she immediately goes limp, her body relaxing into that strange trance I’d accidentally discovered.
Her wrists, upper body, and legs remain bound, which isn’t such a terrible thing, considering her temperament when awake, but at least she is no longer staked to the ground.
A royal prince in one hand, and a slumbering wood sprite in the other.
Not exactly how I pictured my morning.
I beat my wings hard, climb past the royal box once again, past the king and queen and high wizard, and angle toward the shrinking opening in the magical net. We burst through and soon out through the dome as well.
“Whoa!” the prince shouts, twisting around to look at me. “You really are crazy!”
I can’t help but smile. “You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.”