Chapter Eight
The slumbering wood sprite awakens in a bad mood.
She suddenly kicks violently, surprising me enough that I nearly drop her. Next, she jerks violently, fighting me and demanding that I turn her around. I could be transporting a possessed, talking worm.
“Best be careful, my little friend,” I say. “You really don’t want me to drop you, though I suspect you’re semi-immortal, like the elves of my planet. Yes, let me turn you around. Hang on.”
With my other hand occupied with the prince, I am forced to use my foot to brace her as I adjust my grip, crawling my fingers along her legs, then back, until I grip her by the chains along her neck.
“Better?” I ask.
“At least I won’t keep going to sleep!” she snaps.
“I’m getting us both out of here, little lady,” I say. “You may not have wanted saving, and you definitely didn’t volunteer for my escape plan, but you’re part of it now. So sit tight and let me keep us alive.”
We fly low over farm and field, since that is what this land seems to consist mostly of.
The crackling, unnerving magic that filled the arena is gone.
The red sun seems to energize me; in fact, I don’t feel a need to draw energy.
I can get it straight from the sun itself.
Meanwhile, both the prince and the sprite settle down.
I wonder if a magical tracking device has been attached to the boy.
If so, then searches will be coming soon. I have to keep moving and stay alert.
The boy is my best bet to break out of this joint. But I don’t want to just break out, I want to shut these cruel games down forever. For now, though, putting some distance between myself and the arena is the best course of action. And no, I don’t trust summoning the single flame, not yet.
“What are your names?” I ask after an hour or so of flying.
“Pickles,” says the boy. “Prince Pickles. I hate it.”
The sprite giggles. “It’s cute.”
I nod in agreement. Truth be told, he does kind of resemble a royal pickle in his purple outfit. “How about you, little lady?” I ask the sprite, holding her up to eye level. She hardly weighs anything.
“I am called Salt Creek Sprite.”
“Why Salt Creek?”
She shrugs. “Because I was born beside a salt creek.”
“Good enough. Now, where did you learn how to fight like that?”
She lifts her chin proudly.
“My people are the warrior fae of my home world. Every child is taught to fight.”
“And you?”
“I am considered by many the finest warrior of my generation.” She says it without arrogance; it is simply a fact.
“Which is why they chose me for these Games.” Her tiny smile fades.
“I do not wish to die. But at least in the arena, I had a fighting chance. Now...” She glances back toward the distant stadium.
“Now I fear the dark magic will claim me instead.”
“It hasn’t claimed us yet, sister.” I suspect we are out of Baltazar’s reach.
“There are other wizards, vampire,” snaps Pickles.
“Don’t call her that, you little twerp!” snaps Salt Creek. “Have you no manners?”
“Actually, I am a vampire. What we call an energy vampire. Kind of the same thing, just none of the red stuff.”
“Oh, I see. On my world, a vampire is something very bad.”
“Mine, too. But I’m one of the good ones.”
“I would have enjoyed watching someone cut your arms off,” says Prince Pickles, grumbling. “Maybe your legs too. Watching you bleed to death would have made my day.”
You’re kind of a dick, I say to him telepathically, since he is mortal and can receive such transmissions. Also, I suspect Salt Creek might chastise me for calling him a ‘dick.’
I am, yes. Mostly, I hunger for violence, like my father and his father before him.
Do others in your world hunger for such violence? I ask him, and give him a prompt to answer all my questions truthfully.
No, but we cast a spell over their food and their entertainment to train them to accept cruelty and to yearn for the Games.
Why is your family so violent?
I was told that we were cursed long ago. A curse that has been passed down through our bloodline. My own children will hunger for such cruelty, too.
Why was your family cursed?
One of my ancestors called upon the Dark One to give him great power. The wish was granted, but with a price. The price was the blood of our subjects. When that wasn’t enough, the Dark One desired the blood of the greatest warriors. When even that wasn’t enough, the Games were created.
Are Baltazar and other magicians blood-thirsty, too?
I don’t honestly know. But they work for my family and do what they are told.
Why?
Because the Dark One gives them their magic. Those who disobey lose their magic. And, of course, will be publicly executed.
Who is the Dark One?
He is the devil of our world. Except ours lives below the arena.
Well, crap. Now I really wish I still had the Devil Killer.
I want to end the Games and return the warriors to their home world. How would I do that?
You will need to convince either Baltazar or the Dark One to lift the spell that prevents teleportation home. Oh, and you must convince the Dark One to give up his blood, and trust me, that’s not going to happen!
Can a lesser magician lift the teleportation spell?
Doubtful. It’s a pretty big spell. Then again, what do I know?
Where can I find another magician?
They are in every town. The towns are all over. We will undoubtedly come upon one soon.
Will the magician try to save you? Or trap me?
If I change my clothes, they will not recognize me.
Is there some type of tracking device in your clothing?
Yes, of course.
Then we need to find you a change of clothes.
Should be easy enough. Any hut or home would have such clothing.
As we fly, I scan the countryside, itself dotted with trees, boulders, and small hills. There, in the distance, I spy a single trail of dark smoke rising into the sky. I aim for it.
What can I expect to find in a simple hut home? I ask the prince.
A basic family unit. The father will protect his home. There will probably be kids, too. Maybe some pets.
You will be cordial to them, I command Pickles. And keep your identity a secret.
Understood.
I decide to leave the sprite bound for now, though she is probably highly uncomfortable.
She is just too tough for me to risk releasing her, even if I could break the magical chains.
I don’t fear her, but I fear I will lose control of her, and she could eventually find her way back to the Games.
Then what would happen? Escape is punishable by death.
No, she is in my charge and I will look out for her, even if she can’t look out for herself; indeed, she might be her own worst enemy at this moment in time.
For now, we need to get Pickles into some new duds.
The closer I get to the finger of smoke, the more the small home comes into view.
It is braced with a low wooden fence. Contained within it are other small fences, animal pens, likely, and a small pond, too.
The home sits upon a small hillock that likely gives them unimpeded and majestic views over the surrounding land.
Far below, at the base of the hill, are rows of crops, fed by a small river which branches off into many small streams. The place looks idyllic as all get out.
A farmer lives here?
Probably.
He lives like a king.
It does seem ideal. I will be sure to have the man hung for his excessive impudence. He lives too well, and is probably too happy. Happiness is a plague we cannot allow on Grandar.
Why?
It uproots the dark magic placed over the land, their food, their minds. Somehow, this lot has bypassed it. Father will not be pleased. I am not pleased. Seeing them thrive makes me want to destroy with my bare hands that which gives them joy.
You are a real dick.
You have no idea, vampire.
Anyway, you will not tell your father about them nor anyone who can hurt them. You will forget about them the instant we leave. Understood?
Understood.