“So must you.”

The wizard unsheathed the blade on his belt. It was made of crystal. Light flickered along its length. “You know how to use one of these?” the wizard asked.

Valerius’s sword was not Ulrik’s usual scimitar, a weapon forged from steel scavenged from the old dead cities of the wastelands. This was a product of sophisticated wizardry. “An elemental blade? I’ve handled one,” Ulrik replied.

“Use this one,” Valerius said. “You’re going to need it.”

Moth tilted his head to one side. He looked puzzled.

“It’s all right,” said Valerius. “It’s already been blessed by the Master of Ceremonies. He wants a good fight as much as we do. And this is the only way we are going to get one.”

Ulrik was tempted to refuse but he feared that the wizard knew something he did not, and was only trying to do him a favour. He nodded. He was not sure why the man wanted to help him but he would take any aid he could get.

“Good luck,” said the cat-girl as they headed off out of sight. Her voice was low and throaty. It sounded like a purr.

 

 

Moth limped ahead just outside Ulrik’s reach. You did not get to be Moth’s age by taking unnecessary risks. The handlers flanked Ulrik, keeping just behind him where they could strike without exposing themselves and prod him into the pit with their painwands should he prove reluctant.

As they neared the mouth of the tunnel, Ulrik could feel the voice of the crowd as much as he heard it. The air vibrated like the hawsers of an airship moored in a storm. They were expecting something special. Both Lem and he had a long track record of kills. Both were the First Blades of their factions. He squinted as they exited to the tunnel mouth and entered the lighted circle of the arena. Glowglobes rotated in the air overhead. Beyond them he could see the cracked crystal of the ancient dome that roofed this Pit. Drummers thrashed their instruments. Pipes shrieked. Cymbals clashed.

The ash-covered sand crunched beneath his boots as he entered the battle circle.