Page 19 of Gladiator Moon

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.