Page 9 of Gladiator Moon

“Please do not attempt to break out. There are no windows and no other doors. The walls are impenetrable, as are the floor and ceiling. If you are caught trying to escape, you will be staked out in the open, food for the beasties. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good. Your welcome manual is on the table over there. Your accommodations feature a bed and a bathroom. Am I to understand you require no physical sustenance?”

“You understand correctly.”

“A guard will stand outside your door at all times. You may feed from him energetically as often as you need to. He is a big guard. Please do not kill him by withdrawing excessively. Any non-arena deaths will result in...”

“Death. I get it. I will only nibble a little.”

“Very good. Familiarize yourself with the Games, and be prepared to fight tomorrow morning. You will, in fact, kick off the games.”

“Oh, goodie.”

“There is no good in here, Sam. There is only fighting, death, and punishment. In all things, you must follow the rules. There are too many warriors here and too much raw power for us to ever let any of it get out of hand. Read up and rest. The manual is in English. Your bed is a standard human queen-size bed. Sleep well. I will be back in the morning to summon you.”

He motions for me to step inside the room, which I do, highly aware that it feels more like a jail cell than a hotel room, though it looks comfortable enough. He warns me about trying to escape, claiming he has eyes and ears everywhere. And with that, the heavy door slams shut behind me, and I am left alone in the spacious suite. I cross my arms over my chest and turn in a circle, scanning.

“What the hell just happened?” I mutter.

Chapter Three

I go straight for the manual sitting open on a sort of rustic-looking table that might have been made by mountain trolls or Hobbits. Hmm, unless they are the same thing. It sports thick, heavy legs, and is slightly off-kilter. Typical Hobbits, or so I imagine.

Though I’m a fairly slow reader, I am able to work my way through the crazy manual quickly enough with the help of some graphic imagery of decapitations and the severing of limbs. In essence, it explains what I can and can’t do during the battles. Apparently, there really is no escape until the last man, woman, or alien is standing.

Size doesn’t matter. In fact, any size of warrior could face another combatant of any size. It really comes down to luck of the draw. A contestant could use any natural gifts they’ve been bestowed with or have developed throughout the course of their life. No combatant can enlist the aid of another. It is truly every man for themselves. The winner will receive a prize of immense value suitable to the winner’s home world. In my case, I would be given many tons of gold. Nice, but there would be a lot of death and mayhem between me and the gold. Most warriors have to fight their way through a minimum of ten opponents.

Included in the manual are pictures of the many combatants for this year’s Games. Each is bigger than the next, and if not bigger, then certainly uglier. Some seem to stand nearly twenty-feet tall! One hulking monster has six arms, another two giant legs, one even has two heads, another sports the head of a praying mantis. Most are roped in what appears to be the alien version of muscle, and many more are scarred and very clearly battle-tested. And there I am in one of the pictures, wearing black jeans, a white t-shirt and sneakers, looking adorable and tiny. But not the smallest. Indeed, there are various fairy-like creatures with wings who look far smaller and, yes, even more adorable.

As I scan the pictures of those I might find myself squaring off against tomorrow, one thing becomes abundantly clear: I have to shut these games down, once and for all, one way or another. I certainly don’t want to kill a creature I have no grudge against, and it is a crime against the universe that all these creatures (me included) are snatched from their home planets just to entertain a royal psychopath. No, I am not afraid of any of these beasts. Nor am I afraid of dying. But I am afraid I might never see my kids again, and that is a sucky thought, to say the least, though mostly it pisses me off.

But first, I need more intel. For starters, who is this king and how can I reach him? Once I reach him, I will be lodging a formal complaint, along with my foot up his ass.

Next, I look for any information I can find on the planet of Grandar, but nothing is mentioned in the manual, nor is there anything that resembles a computer in my suite.

So, I stroll over to the heavy door and try the heavy iron handle. There is no give. Not even a jiggle. I throw a shoulder into it but nothing happens. Next, I reach out with my mind, pushing my consciousness through the door, and there, standing just off to one side, is a large humanoid ‘man’ dressed in dull, leather armor and wielding a battle ax. He stands at attention, though he looks more bored than anything. His too-wide eyes stare off into the middle distance and look glazed over.

Seeing where he stands indicates where I should position myself for maximum effect. So, I get up and move to the side of the door. I sit down directly opposite from the guard, with only a wall between us.

Facing the wall, I reach through it with my mind, searching for his. Shortly, I find it. I don’t know how much of this room is monitored by Baltazar or others. But so far, I haven’t raised any alarms, and so I proceed, slipping deeper into the guard’s mind. Luckily, he is mortal and so his mind is not closed off to me.

Do you speak English? I ask him telepathically.

Of course not.

Sounds like English to me.

A spell has been placed on everyone who enters the arena. Whatever language is spoken, the listener hears it in their native tongue.

Good to know.

I next command him not to act any different, and certainly not to raise any alarms. As of yet, I haven’t dared force the guard to try to free me. That is, if he could even do such a thing, which I doubt. Baltazar has made it clear that he, and only he, could release me from my magical prison.

What is your name?

Timrick the Fallen.