Page 30 of Gladiator Moon

He wasn’t joking. The body odor emanating off them is enough to bring tears to my eyes. No doubt the prince has never smelled such odors and will protest. I don’t really care if the odors offend him, which is why I command him to love the smell, to appreciate what it smells like to put in a hard day’s work. With that command firmly in place, he takes hold of the farmer’s clothing, actually sniffs deeply from the dirty armpits of the linen tunic, and slips on the loose clothing, while simultaneously stripping off his royal garb. He hands me the brightly colored royal clothing in a haphazard bundle. I grab it, command him to wait here, and with Salt Creek in one hand and the clothing in the other, I take flight, swooping down the hill, looking for a good repository for the clothing, and find something that just might work. Indeed, it is a rocky cleft within the hillside. I circle it a few times, satisfied that it is indeed deep and far away from the farmer’s homestead, and drop the clothing within.

I really don’t want to be followed by Baltazar and his goons, and I really don’t want to put the farmer in harm’s way.

With that, I fly back to the farm on the hill.

There, I thank the man, commanding him to immediately forget us once we leave. I also command the bloodthirsty prince to forget the farmer as well. Mutual forgetting. Before I take flight with Salt Creek and Pickles in tow, it occurs to me that with the very sturdy jerkin and doublet the prince had been wearing now gone, I don’t have any way to grip him safely by the nape of the neck. I ask the farmer if he has a coat we could use, promising to return it to him when we can. He agrees on his own volition without any prompting from me. After more yelling in his farm, he emerges with a coat that I am certain will be too small on the prince. As it is, it fits snugly and provides me with a firm grip, and with that, with the prince and sprite hanging from each hand, I lift off.

Pickles now smells to high heaven, which makes me giggle, especially since he seems enchanted with the eye-watering fumes.

Now, onto my next task: lift the teleportation spell so that myself and others like me can safely go home again.

Of course, I don’t just want to flee this planet of horrors. I want to shut down the cruel Games, too. First things first, though, look for another magician to help break the cursed teleportation spell.

And there, just beyond the next hill, I spy many fingers of smoke, from many buildings. Surely, a town or village.

And there will be a wizard there? I query the lad.

Almost certainly, depending on the size. If too small, then possibly no.

How does one find such wizards?

Just look for the red roofs; it’s their calling cards.

And as we near the community, packed with ramshackle cottages, farms, tents, and shacks, I do just that: look for a red roof.

I almost give up hope until I spy one on the other side of town. In fact, it is a very brightly painted red-tiled roof. No mistaking it; also, it is the only one of its kind.

Each wizard is given a town, the boy goes on. Early in life, they must prove themselves competent and gifted. And later, wise and discerning. And of course, loyal to my father and the Dark One.

Who gives them their magical power.

Yes.

Are the wizards immortal?

No. They die of old age and must be replaced, especially if they lose their minds, which many wizards tend to do. It’s a real problem. New wizards move into the previous wizards’ homes. It’s a good system. Brings in fresh perspectives and occasionally even new magic.

Okay, I’m landing in the alley behind the home. Will he know we’re coming?

Very likely.

Well, let’s land, then act like we are citizens in need of help.

Except he would know all citizens. Oh, and you have wings and she’s bound in glowing chains. He will know something is wrong and turn you in immediately, if he doesn’t turn you into a frog first!

The wings will be gone, and there is nothing we can do about her. Perhaps I can swaddle her in a blanket, make it appear she’s a sleeping child.

She won’t be happy.

It’s better than being discovered, though she would make for a very cute frog.

Be careful, vampire. Father and Baltazar would level this town if they knew I was being hidden here.

All the better to swaddle.

We alight in the alley behind the small home. Compared to the horrors of the arena, the place looks almost painfully ordinary. A narrow path runs between two low stone buildings, with a weathered wooden fence stretching along one side. A cotton blanket hangs over the top of it, likely left there to dry in the sun. I jump up, snatch the blanket, and expertly swaddle the little wood sprite. Pickles is right. She is not happy about it.

I shush her and remind her that I just saved her life and was, in fact, trying very hard to get us all home alive. This seems to pacify her slightly. At least she stops kicking and resumes only glaring at me, which, considering Salt Creek, is probably the best she can do. I assure her that once I have a handle on the situation, I will see to releasing her, but that she is, in essence, too fierce for her own good at the moment. Luckily, whatever language communication spell that had been placed on us in the arena, is working out here, too.