“That’s all you get.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s not up to me.” He gives me a slight shrug, which sets me even more on edge. Like he’s an innocent bystander.
“Open it!” I snap at the man next to him, his hand on the wheel that operates the portcullis.
“Waiting for the signal,” he mutters. The other looks at him, and they exchange a grin. They’re having a great time, front-row view to watch me die. I’ll remember this next time I find one of them drunk in a tavern somewhere.
“Marco!” The familiar voice takes me like a wave. The comfort of my only friend. Evander’s here, and he’s fast, taking up my hand, pressing it between both of his, cold steel meeting my palm. Levelling his dark eyes on mine, he turns me so my back’s to the two men and my body’s blocking their view. “Is your shoulder better?”
One quick push and the blade’s hidden by my wrist cuff. “Still sore.”
“Stay off it as best you can. And don’t die. Doctor’s orders.”
“What’s going on there?” The weaponsman barks.
“Shut up,” Evander snaps back. But just as I try to withdraw my hand, he pulls it back and says softly, “Northwest corner.”
“What was that?” The weaponsman moves around to find our hands separated, Evander’s cool eyes hard on him.
“I said you’re a wanker.” Then he slaps a hand on my arm and meets my eyes with an anxious confidence. “Good luck. Don’t make too much work for me.”
“I’ll try my best.”
“You’ll do great.” Evander slips into the shadows as quickly as he came, leaving me to stare through the gate, my heart pounding louder than the feet of the fans above.
Then a sound. Music. A fiddle starts to play, loud and fast and jarring, and with the opening notes, the wheel begins to turn, the rusty portcullis squealing my arrival as it rises.
It’s game time. I have no idea what’s waiting for me out there. How bad it’s going to be. All I do know is Evander is worried enough to cheat. That can’t be good.
The sand scrunches hot beneath my sandals as I step into bright daylight. The screams of the crowd echo around the arena. I want to take the space in, prepare myself. But the whole place is unrecognizable.
It’s alive with trees, a forest. A verdant horror of hiding places in every direction, and me with no clue what I’m up against.
But before I walk any further, I look to the Emperor’s booth and salute.
It doubles the frenzy of the crowd and hopefully doubles my chances of a weapon drop later.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice crackles across the stadium, “your captain, Marco Verus.”
I hold my fist in the air, and they applaud like it’s a sword.
“Welcome to the variety stage of Deathball, where anything goes. Today’s scintillating spectacular is a refreshing delight we’ve called Lair ofLadon. Our esteemed Emperor has collaborated with High Commander Bishop to show you some of the richest delights of the lands Victora has conquered, as we spread our glory to the farthest reaches of the globe, bringing the most splendid treasures back to you good people.”
In short, whatever’s waiting for me is something I’ve never seen before. Great.
The music speeds up, then hits a long and shrill note. With it comes the crunch of the main gates opening, and a scream from the audience. They can see something I can’t, and their excitement tells me whatever it is, it’s bad.
“Lacretes Metus,” comes the announcement. “See the nostrils flare? See the tongue search? It’s hungry.”
What the actual fuck?
“The question is, will it find its lunch before Marco does?”
Lunch?
Robin.
