The creature was so large that Alden Zane, who was himself a large man, had to crane his neck to gaze up at it. The two were so mismatched in size that it seemed a foregone conclusion the huge creature would prevail without much of a fight. It roared again and the room shook, and this time, despite its seeming indifference, it moved more quickly.
The Woard lunged and struck out at Alden with one fist, hoping to swipe him against the wall. Its attempt at stealth failed. The smaller man was too quick, and had anticipated the attack. He leaped back, avoided the blow, and swung his blade in a lightning swift arc that opened a deep slice behind the Woard’s huge, pale knuckles.
“Nice,” Ronon said.
Sheppard turned on him, eyes wide.
He shrugged. “What?”
Against all apparent odds, Alden Zane took the fight to his adversary. He was fast, much faster and a good deal more agile than the Woard. His blade, though he wielded it with strength and skill, seemed to bite deeper than his blows should have driven it. Light, Shepherd noticed, flickered up and down the length of the blade.
“It’s more than just a sword,” Rodney said. He almost sounded excited. “There’s something more — some sort of technology. Look at the energy rippling along the blade.”
“Of course.” Mara smiled at Rodney. “Alden would have no chance at all against the Woard if all he had was a blade of steel. He’s strong and graceful — very quick — but the Woard is genetically designed for battle. Its only purpose is to fight and to kill. Hardly a fair contest, under normal circumstances. We’ve worked a very long time to carefully even the odds in the entertainment. If we knew for certain that the Woard would win, or that Alden Zane would win, there would be nothing to bet on.”
“You call this fair?” Sheppard scoffed. “You throw them into an arena together, force them to fight to the death, and you talk about how it’s fair? Tell me, what does the winner get?”
“He lives to fight again,” Mara said. “He receives adulation, food, drink — whatever he desires — unless of course the Woard wins. I’m afraid there’s not much of a mind there to work with. His one desire is to feed. He lacks the organs to drain victims, as the Wraith would, but his hunger is — intense.”
“And the loser?” Sheppard pressed. “He goes home to his own room at night, eats with his family, listens to music or hangs out at the card tables back in your big game room?”
“Of course not,” Mara replied. “It is, as you said, a fight to the death. But the warriors are not citizens. We could not produce a warrior strong enough, or an opponent dangerous enough, to be interesting by simple genetic selection.”
Sheppard recoiled, disgusted. “So what do you do? Make the visitors trapped here fight your monsters? Take them apart too, like the Wraith, and play God with their genetic codes? Is that how you make them strong enough to fight?”
“We don’t — ”
“Yes,” a voice cut in from behind them. “I’m afraid that’s exactly what we do, my dear.”
Sheppard turned to find Saul standing in the doorway. He held a drink in one hand, sipping from it as he watched them all carefully.
“It’s a voluntary service,” he said. “We don’t force visitors to our city into the arena. Everyone who comes here is given the chance to choose citizenship, join us in our revelries, and share in the good life we’ve managed to create for ourselves. We can’t offer them a way home to their own people, but we can make them comfortable. Over time, most make that choice. There are others, though — those who are more difficult — who never come around. These find their way, eventually, into the arena. Some of them have donated their genetics to the creation of the ‘adversaries,’ as we like to call them — others can’t get the desire to fight out of their minds. Men like Alden.”
“So you let them fight, for your entertainment?” Sheppard rose to his feet, struggling to keep a lid on his revulsion. “You watch men die for fun?”
Saul smiled. “Not only men.” His gaze slid across them all, lingering briefly on Teyla, then returned to Sheppard. “Our warriors are given many years of training — both martial and psychological. We are not barbarians, Colonel Sheppard, we don’t send them straight into the arena with an adversary like the Woard. In fact, most never earn such an honor. It’s one thing to defeat another human warrior, or a wild animal, it’s quite another thing to face off against something like that.” He tilted his chin toward the arena and took a sip of his drink. “We use the entertainments themselves to weed out those who can, and cannot, sufficiently entertain us.”
“And what about the ones who don’t make the grade?”
“They either change their minds and join us as citizens, as consumers of the entertainments, or…”
“Or they die fighting one another in your arena,” Teyla guessed. Her eyes flashed and she started to stand. Ronon put a hand on her arm and held her in place.
“That is their choice,” Saul said. “We give them every opportunity to join us. It’s very simple, really, and none are allowed to choose the arena until they have witnessed several entertainments for themselves.” He took another sip of his drink. “But this is wearisome. I trust you are enjoying the show?”
As if in response, a huge roar of defiance rose from the floor below. The Woard had stalked Alden Zane until it seemed that he had the man trapped. Zane’s back was to the wall, blood trickled from a wound on his cheek. The Woard had deep cuts and gouges all over its huge, misshapen body, but none of them seemed to have slowed it. It drew back one huge hand and drove it forward with deadly force, intending to squash its opponent into the stone wall.
Zane moved with incredible speed. He narrowly avoided the Woard’s strike, slipped between its legs, and as he did so he lifted the huge blade and swung it in a wicked arc across the Woard’s ankle. He caught the creature on the back of its Achilles tendon. The blade cut deep and the Woard screamed. It tried to spin, but one ankle no longer supported it. Even as it fell it swung at Alden Zane, who jumped back nimbly. He held his ground and then, when the moment was perfect, he made his move. With a battle cry half rage and half desperation, he launched himself, came down with both boots on the Woard’s chest, and slashed the creature’s throat with a single swipe of his blade.
Everything grew still in that moment. The crowd was silenced and the air was thick with tension and disbelief. Zane stood for a long moment atop his fallen foe, and then, as if coming out of a trance, he leaped off. He was no fool. As certain as the Woard’s death seemed, he hit the ground in a roll and came up in a defensive stance.
The crowd went wild. The roar of applause was stunning. Sheppard turned to Saul, who shrugged. The man leaned in close.
“The Woard has long been considered unbeatable. A lot of money has just changed hands and the stories will be told for some time to come. This is probably the finest moment the entertainment has produced in a decade — and you were here to witness it. It was a great battle; it’s what they live for.”
“We have to talk,” Sheppard said.
“Tomorrow, Colonel. There will be plenty of time for us to discuss whatever is on your mind tomorrow. As exciting as this was, it is only the beginning of the night’s festivities. I’m afraid I have to take my leave.”