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other gladiators. Sometimes with wild men. But just as often with savage beasts, the like of which the Q’zarans had never seen.
    Finally, it was their turn. Zimak was pale and shaking. He turned to Daretor. ‘I’ll see you in the Halls of the Dead,’ he said.
    ‘Just do as I tell you. Keep your eyes open,’ Daretor replied.
    They walked into the stadium. As they had been taught, they turned and bowed towards the King, who signalled for the match to begin.
    ‘See the pulsing red orb medallion about the King’s neck?’ Zimak said. ‘I’ll wager that’s worth his ransom.’
    ‘I said keep your eyes open for danger,’ Daretor seethed. ‘And keep your thieving thoughts to yourself!’
    ‘Daretor, I’ve got nothing else to hang on to.’
    Daretor raised his broadsword in anger at Zimak. The crowd mistook his action as one of gladiatorial defiance and roared its approval.
    ‘Hie,’ Zimak said. ‘I think they like us.’
    The first round was against two gladiators who were quickly dispatched. Then came a knot of longhaired wild men waving cudgels and screaming incoherently. They, too, were easily slain. The crowd roared at each success. Though the first time Zimak leaped over the heads of their assailants the stadium fell silent, then roared again, louder than before.
    Two hours later, Daretor and Zimak were still undefeated. The King collected significant wagers off several of his noblemen, who glared at the pair of gladiators. Then a trumpet sounded and a page stepped forth and bellowed for all to hear: ‘King Amida has commanded that the final battle shall be against the mantid.’
    The crowd hushed and a ripple of unease swept the gallery. Archers appeared on the lower stand, fixing arrows to bows, and aiming them down into the arena.
    ‘A mantid? What in White Quell’s name is that?’ asked Zimak.
    Daretor wiped blood from his brow and dried his hands with sand. ‘I rather think we shall find out soon enough.’
    At the far end of the stadium a heavy portcullis was slowly being raised. Even before it was a foot off the ground something impacted with it on the other side, almost tearing it from its oiled runners. A fierce roar erupted from the holding pen and again the portcullis shook from a massive splintering impact.
    Zimak tried to swallow his fear. The blood had drained from his face. ‘I was thinking, we could easily leap the wall into the lower stands, and take our chance in the chasms.’
    ‘You should have thought of that before the archers were positioned there.’
    ‘Well you think of something,’ Zimak countered.
    Daretor waved Zimak aside and took several steps away himself. His eyes never left the cranking portcullis. ‘Whatever is coming will be very hard to kill. If there is a chance at all, we will have to co-ordinate our attack. Look, there’s Osric, in the stand above the portcullis.’
    Osric was standing beside a thick column. ‘Great,’ said Zimak. ‘I thought you were befriending him to help us.’
    A sudden commotion drew their attention back to the portcullis. It was now half way up. With a great roar, something exploded through the wooden gate and hurtled towards them in a blur of speed. It looked like a giant crab only it had the mandibles of an insect or spider. Its six legs smashed into the ground like pistons as it whirled towards them.
    ‘Jump!’ shouted Daretor.
    Zimak complied. Fortunately, they jumped in opposite directions, confusing the walnut-sized brain of the creature. It skidded to a stop, then cocked its head first one way then the other to glare at each of them.
    With amazing speed it darted towards Zimak. Its forward pincers snapped the air where he’d been a second before. Instead, he was sailing through the air to land some forty feet behind the creature.
    It spun round and charged for Daretor, who stood his ground till almost the last second. Then he darted between the creature’s legs, peering up at its underbelly, seeking a vulnerable point. But