A Journey of Black and Red

“...under certain conditions,” I amend almost immediately.

The temptation to visit this sphere, gaining allies and funds along the way grips me, however I have just been scalded by one betrayal and would rather wait until my next disappointment. Is this how my sire operates? Dealing with others knowing he will be played and will have to get his point across with a hand through the chest? Ugh.

“Name them!” Makyas yells with enthusiasm. If anything, he seems even more eager.

To begin with, I mercilessly interrogate him about every aspect of his plan. Although I would not imply malice from the tiny eye-eating monster — no, I do imply malice, but not aimed towards me — the point of failure of many plans is not enemy action but incompetence. He might just consider an escape plan that I could not use because he can go through keyholes and I may not. I am capable of going through protected doors but most of the time, the lock will not survive the experience. Makyas should not have a perfect understanding of my abilities, nor of my limits. I need to know the plan from the beginning to the end.

To my surprise, he does seem to have one, and it is quite intricate at that. What Makyas also has is numbers. His minions or associates are numerous, and each come with their skills in being where they shouldn’t be. As such, not only does he have extensive information on where we are going, we will also be able to adapt our plans on the fly.

I will also be wearing disguises.

I cannot help but feel excitement growing. Blood and masquerade? What more could I ask for to mark my grand entrance in the faerie games. They can keep to their strange customs while I collect eyeballs and favors.

“Yes,” I finally agree after detailing everything. By that time, we are approaching the end of the night and day cycle.

“Yes, this will do nicely.”

Voidmoore is an anomaly, even by Faerie standards. It was discovered eons ago by the Court of Blue and quickly populated by virtue of having readily available houses. Who built those? Even Makyas doesn’t know. What he does know is that Voidmoore used to be a fraction of its current size.

“This house was not there last time I came,” he says, pointing at a spindly building nestled between two fat warehouses.

I inspect the decrepit walls. The roof tiles look like they are a light breeze away from splitting the head of the next passerby. By comparison, its two neighbors display clean walls while warm lights radiate from the windows like cozy invitations in the gloomy later afternoon. I blink and grab the latch of the newcomer, curious.

“Careful, some houses here actually move,” Makyas notes.

“Yes yes, on many foots!” one of his kin adds, bobbing excitedly.

“They eat people!” another gasps. “Rude!”

“Any way to tell?” I ask.

“Check the entrance and you can see the teeth!” the tiniest trumpets in a piccolo voice.

I look around and find only bricks.

With a shrug, I enter the place without resistance. It means it is abandoned, as I felt something when visiting Aunt Carnaciel’s demesne. This one looks clean enough if impoverished. The pantry contains a half-filled bag of millet and a peach-like fruit in syrup, held in a sealed glass jar. It has plumbing.

The proportions are not quite right. Yet.

“They grow like mushrooms!” Makyas laughs. “Or like flowers.”

“With the food in?” I ask.

“You still have to buy your own.”

“Or steal it.”

“Or scavenge it!”

“Or eat your enemies!” the flying chorus replies.

“Hmmm.”

“Let’s not tarry, Ariane the Devourer,” Makyas buzzes by my ear, “We have to resize your disguise before the fighting begins.”

“Oh yes, let us away.”

Above us, a flying frigate leaves a trail of smoke. It fades into the clouds a moment later.

I discover that Voidmoore is a shell upon which live roving bands of lost fae, I discover. Many of the houses we pass by stand empty, though for each strange, empty domain, there is one lived in by fae of all shapes and sizes. Ratmen and boys with hare whiskers run in the street after each other under the benevolent gaze of a parent. Merchants haggle for all sorts of wares in the shadows of leaning apartments. Some warehouses host glass blowers or dye makers or all sorts of industries while others are empty, gutted of their occupants like old crypts. The uniformity of the architecture lends the place a maze-like feeling only reinforced by its immensity, and some of the alleys give me an impression of terrible foreboding rather than the melancholy I expected.

If the streets were Voidmoore’s shell, then the pit is its stomach. Makyas leads me to its edge, while I hide under a cowled cape so as not to attract undue attention. The entrance lies in the heart of the most populous district, this one under guard by armored fae in pristine uniforms. There lie the embassies and trading house branches. There, also, lie the piers. Like the twisted roots of a dead tree, they extend over the abyss in a haphazard mess of splitting extensions, some solid, some so rickety I wouldn’t trust them with Makyas’ weight. Ships themselves come in a staggering variety of specimens. One in particular shines blue and dangerous, its prow mounted with a swordfish blade that crackles under the darkening clouds. Others are merely more than boxes strapped to patched up, stubby balloons. All of them show those strange crystals that keep them afloat and that I will absolutely, definitely, in no uncertain terms acquire before all of this is done. Illinois Guns of Liberty expanding into flying warships? Yes please.

With one last look of regret at a damaged sloop leaning on its side like wounded prey begging to be slain, I return my attention to the Pit’s entrance. It is, quite simply, a dark maw in the middle of the plaza. Even the uneven pavement appears to swirl into its depth, stone as frozen liquid stuck for all eternity at the edge of a vortex. Tough thugs line stairs going down, eyeing the pedestrians with suspicion.

“They look for banned folks,” Makyas whispers from my cowl, “but you are new so we are fine for now. You’ll definitely be banned after tonight though!”

“Can they even stop me? Where are the heavy hitters?”

“You’ll be eating them tonight!”

“Most excellent.”

A basic ramp snakes around the chasm’s walls, without any railings of course. The temperature increases as we go down. Interestingly, all of the fae we come across bow and take a step towards the abyss when they see me. A matter of etiquette towards someone who might be a noble, I presume. My presence is known by now, but it should not leave our prospective foes a chance to do anything but speculate.

After a steep descent, the maw opens to an immense cavern well-lit by crystals embedded everywhere. I study the walls and find them peculiar, smooth like volcanic glass. Before me, half of the cavern is filled with stalls and rickety shops hawking food, weapons and armors, gambling dens, and a variety of projectiles to toss at performers. The other half hosts the circular, walled confines of the arena, with a blockish square at the back to hide the cells and the morgue. It is quite simply massive. So massive, it should not fit in a cavern without its ceiling collapsing. So massive that it could host thousands of people at once, perhaps tens of thousands. Here hides Voidmoore’s devouring mouth of sin, eating contestants and spitting entrails and profit. And here I shall make a killing.

Hopefully.

“The back entrance is over there,” Makyas whispers. He forcefully turns my cowl in the right direction and I walk, feeling a bit like his horse. Once again, I am either ignored or avoided entirely, and the strange feeling reminds me of the foreign nature of the spheres with as much certainty as the flying ships. Back on earth, most social differences are constructs. I can look like an affluent daughter of a Boston family in the afternoon, then wear the guise of a scullery maid by nightfall as I weave between groups of people, my back bent and my eyes modest. At midnight I can be an exotic European beauty and no one except my kin would be the wiser. Here, my humanoid traits place me squarely in the ranks of the nobles. This difference of status stems from inborn magical might, a gap between species that no amount of artifices will ever truly bridge. I could be powerful. They are not. There is no need to delve deeper.

We reach a small gate hidden between two beige stone pillars just as I finish my musing. A titanic man in chainmail with tusks and quills for hair glares at me with suspicion, though he seems less fearful than his brethren. I can feel power from his aura. He could give a Courtier a run for their money, maybe even stall a Master. Makyas flickers and whispers in his ear, then we are through to a long corridor dimly lit by blue stones. The stench of death is cloying here, and it is old. It has soaked in the very stone. My magic will be powerful in this place. Hmmm.

At the end of the passage, we find an incongruously decorated reception ‘manned’ by a bespectacled mole in a fancy outfit. The strange creature taps thin fingers together when it sees us. Makyas dives forward to greet it, as we planned. It is best for me to appear meek and demure until the blood starts to flow.

“Another skull to the pile, winged one?” the creature huffs.

Male, from the voice. He speaks in Child Likaean as well, though his feels clipped and difficult. It lacks the associated meaning, even to my inexperienced ears.

“This one is good!” Makyas assures him.

“You know the rules. We cannot have grudges.”

“This one is not a member of any court. This I swear.”

The mole man glares at me. I remain unfazed. I am mostly sure Sinead will turn this place to ash should I die here, but he asked a question and we gave an answer. Besides, I do not intend to die.

“She looks like a noble. Smells powerful too.”

His tongue flicks out.

“Very powerful. But it will not be enough. You know this, winged one.”

Makyas smiles and our host sighs.

“You, listen. This place isn’t what you think it is. The arena will swallow you whole, as it has many others. It is not a question of skill but of odds. The one in control likes to play them. No matter how strong you are, he will find the perfect counter and then you will wake up in the afterlife or with a collar around your neck to compensate the Thousand Leaves for ‘medical costs’. Do not throw your life away.”

Makyas turns to me, a sign that answering is safe.

“I understand the risks,” I assure the man.

I appreciate that he would go against his employers in the name of fairness. Obviously, he does not believe me.

“You foolish young nobles, always too confident. You have won three duels and think you know danger. I wish you luck. Your candidacy is accepted. You will join the third melee. Do you understand me, winged one?” he finishes with a scowl.

Makyas mimes beating someone with a mace until the mole man takes a swipe at him. On a prompt, I drop a purse of Makyas’ tokens on the table.

“Private room?” the creature asks after inspecting its contents.

“Yes.”

“Number thirteen. I will let the guards know.”

We delve deeper into the base, finally stopping in front of a room that is half a cell and half a make-up room for ballet dancers. There is even a mirror which does not reflect me. I find an old, cracked painting stuck in a corner. It shows an embracing couple moving to hug and separate in a loop. A helpful message is drawn in the corner.

‘I shall win and return to take this back.’

Someone else drew a face laughing itself silly over the doomed oath.

Ominous.

The rest of the support crew arrives as I inspect other discarded memorabilia. They fly through the keyhole though I left the door ajar — a matter of principle, I suppose.

“We’re in!”

“Yeeeee!”

“When eyeballs?”

“Do we have the list yet?”

“It smells like dog in here.”

“HUSH!” Makyas interrupts. “Check the room for tricks and traps and pits and rats. Leave no tile unturned!”

The swarm of flutterlings spreads across the room, pushing and pulling and looking all around. A group almost breaks a small vase and bickers. The other pulls a strange glass from the ceiling. I feel a spell being cast. As before, the world moves around to accommodate the will of the fae with plastic grace, while casting on earth is like pushing mud around. So unfair.

“Looking eye isn’t looking!” the tiniest flutterling reports with an exaggerated military salute.

“Excellent. There isn’t much to do beyond wait for the third melee. It will mean…”

“That I face Tog the Cudgel, yes. I remember.”

“And then a slew of other small timers before the arena really tries to take you down. We will make sure you are protected from ambush outside of the arena, where they will send you between bouts after you have bloodied their nose. They cannot be too obvious about being rotten, cheating scum.”

By they, he means the Thousand Leaves alliance, one of the dominant gangs in this land. I should be out before they have the time to retaliate, if they even dare. Makyas’ target is one of their most dangerous combatants and I intend to make a show out of him.

The wait is made less tedious by two things. The first, and expected, is that I change into my first costume. It is a simple, white gambeson with buckles and a skirt over fitting leggings. Astute eyes will recognize this as an under armor and draw the necessary conclusion as the show goes on. The flutterlings even grant me the intimacy I desire with a curtain they brought themselves, though I am not quite sure how. The second and more pleasantly surprising is that they braid my hair, forming a harmonious, humming chorus to do so. I find the feeling of dozens of tiny hands on my scalp relaxing, just as their songs soothe me. Soon enough, the time has come to join the melee. A heavily armored sentry leads me to a large waiting room where other gladiators await in sullen silence. Crude weapons line a wall, shoved haphazardly against a rack for those who came unprepared. The closest halberd still sports a lone, severed finger curled around its handle.

“You’re up,” a fae finally says.

He is a tall, hunched man with chitinous fingers, his face hidden behind disheveled hair. Only yellow eyes can be seen peering from behind his matted bangs. He glares at each other in turn before addressing us in Child Likaean.

“Rules are simple. Anything goes after the game master says you can fight, and not a moment before. Fights are to the death or incapacitation. You can surrender, I guess.”

I see a hint of fangs when he smiles.

“...but the others don’t have to stop. Hehe. The last one standing gets to face a named gladiator. Now form a line and remember, no fighting before we say so or you die first. Got it? You, near the door, you’re the first out. The others get behind.”

We obey. Most of those I see are lesser fae clutching poorly made weapons in sweaty grips, but there are a few outliers I deem capable, including a tall masked fellow with twin axes and a strange, insectile being with a skull like a horseshoe crab. The strange being and I share a look. Its eyes are pure dark.

The dozen or so fodder line up. I have brought no weapon, nor will I use one at first. We obediently step out.

A roar hits me like a wall. Powerful, hot light weighs upon my shoulders. The sand is red and reeks of old blood. Stained steel hooks angled down prevent people from climbing out, arrayed like so many inward teeth. The space is enormous. In front of us, a high dais hosts the more important people of the place: a smattering of influential people and the current owner of the pit, the Queen of a Thousand Leaves, the infamous Malera. She lounges in a high seat, looking bored. Her visible eye shines crimson while the other hides behind a green band. Blue hair hangs on her jacket like a sash. Her interest in us wanes, and she turns to an advisor to whisper a few words.

The public gives us only a mild roar. The arena is far from full, and those present negotciate or purchase snacks from vendors more than they watch us. It is as Makyas said. We are but cannon fodder.

Above them, vast enchantmented walls show images of us from up close like photographs, but unlike photographs, they move. What a brilliant innovation, if it can indeed follow the contestants.

Meanwhile, we stop in front of the dais in a loose formation. The game master is recognizable from his loose purple toga and antlers rising from his brow. I expected much from Likaean entertainment and this is… unsatisfactory, though to be fair it would be like judging humanity from a back alley rooster fight. The only interesting point so far is the delicious smell of fear that comes from some of my fellow rivals. If the game master shares my feeling, he does not betray signs of it as he spreads his arms wide as if welcoming a trusted friend.

“Ladies of gentlemen, my fellow connoisseurs of the fine things in life,” he announces, and I am struck by surprise.

Not only does he speak true Likaean, but his meaning is conveyed with such clarity that an earthling might understand the notions he conveys.

“We gather tonight to welcome more hopefuls to our warm embrace,” he mocks. “Those fierce warriors will bleed for your enjoyment and a chance to fight a real gladiator. So, have we found steel or will they fold like paper? Let’s find out. Kill!”

Abrupt.

But not unexpected. I backhand a spear wielder to my right and dodge a sword strike to the back of my head by leaning forward. I am using human speed and barely more strength right now. For Makyas’ plan to work, I need to look beatable. Only when our enemies place their head through the noose will we pull on the rope. I have never fought like a human before, but I have enough battle experience to make up for it. I block the next horizontal strike from the swordsman by moving forward and blocking his wrist with my right hand, then I punch his throat with my extended left hand. My claws dig into soft flesh. I smell delicious blood, but do not succumb. Instead, I use his shoulder as a springboard to flip over his head while the spear strike aimed at my back buries itself in his chest. I kick a knife wielder who had used shadow magic to hide himself and grab him by the throat. A headlock, a twist, and his spine snaps like a twig. I lean forward and under the second spear strike and step to the side to dodge the third. I grab the shaft and kick its owner back, then shove the weapon in the mouth of a spell caster. The orb of purple energy she had conjured flickers and dies. I kick high, deflecting an overhead axe strike. I steal a knife from its wielder and stab him in the throat before he can recover. I lick my fingers. So much delicious essence there, but I must be patient and savor the moment. Only take from the strong. Yes. My fangs ache but I resist. I must not indulge quite yet.

The fight has lasted thirty seconds but already there are only five contestants left standing. Most of those on the ground are dead. I am left facing the tall masked fellow with twin axes I spotted earlier and a person with goat legs and a staff. We circle each other, unwilling to strike first and offer our backs to the other. The crowd grumbles. We have gathered their attention with a good display. Now, they want more.

The horseshoe crab head fighter solves the situation by disposing of its enemy with blades growing out of its forearms. Twin axes roars and attacks him while I am left facing the quarterstaff fighter. He controls the pace well at first, but I soon grow used to his rhythm and grab his staff at the end of a swing. To my surprise, the weapon glides from my fingers, so slippery I could not hold it at full strength. It is not enough to catch me off guard and I use my foe’s overconfidence against him by dodging under the next attack, blocking the one after and punching his fingers as they hold the shaft. The pain makes him lose his grip and I am on him soon enough. He never gives up, never stops even as I open wound after wound. I end up licking my fingers pensively as he agonizes on the sand. Not much essence, just enough to tease the appetite.

The insectile being won the other match. It has waited patiently for me to finish, and I give it a short nod to express my appreciation. It tilts its head and raises its blades. When my guard is up, it attacks.

I start by moving backward while it strikes in short jabs. It is very, very fast for a bipedal crustacean, reminding me of a mantis. It also immediately backs away when I counter and I soon realize why when it mistakes a feint for a strike and attacks the air. The interesting foe moves faster than it can think. It cannot adapt mid-movement. I have confirmation when I dive under an assault and kick its leg, causing it to stumble. It recovers quickly, however. From then on, its attack sequences shorten and it mixes with counters. I believe it is trying to slice my arms. A decent strategy.

I try to counter or grab its wrists on several occasions, only avoiding sliced fingers because of my ability to predict where the blade will fall. I am now faced with an interesting aspect of fae life. If I limit my speed and refuse to use a blade, I am completely outmatched. The creature is simply a better technician than I am. Only the speed of my mind protects me from defeat. Although the melee is supposed to involve only fodder, I have already found an opponent who could defeat most human blademasters without breaking a sweat. If it sweats. Nevertheless, I am still me. As we fight by the body

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