Casual The Nyriaad: The Epic of Diomedes

[Xuul Zephyrot]

THE NYRIAAD

~Book I~

​

Now sing to me, oh everlasting Force,
Of Diomedes’ rise from slave to Sith.
A long and grueling journey, laced with pain,
As constant struggle strengthened him each day,
Awaited him from cloud-swathed Nyriaan
To Korriban’s dark halls of treachery.
No time to rest upon his laurels, nor
To heal his wounds. Instead he battled on,
No warrior truer to a cause than he
To his. Through years of pain, spent in toil,
At last he found himself atop the world -
Just as a hiker ventures forth on Hoth,
His slow, laborious footsteps spur him on
Across the great expanse of snow, despite
His travels seeming just as small after
A day than when he first began.
At last he crests a ridge; surprised, he finds
A sprawling vista spread beneath his feet,
A valley deep, a stunning sight to see –
So Diomedes found at last the top
And claimed the vaunted “Dark Lord” rank he sought,
Attaining everlasting kleos and
Establishing his name among the Sith
Forevermore.

No noble child was he:
A baby swaddled in a nest of silk
And warmth, with mother gently cooing o’er
Her infant, safe in her embrace. Instead,
His cradle was a basket hastily
Arranged, the baby shifting back and forth,
Unable to relax as rumbling roars,
Deep as the throbs of oceanic tides
That crash upon Ahch-To’s steep, jagged crags
Delivered him to stormy Nyriaan.
His mother, destitute, had stowed him there,
Hoping the ship in which he lay would find
A happier port: a family who would take
Him in as if he was one of their own.

But Diomedes was not destined for
This lot; instead, to cloudy Nyriaan
His transport sped, where, once discovered by
The crew, he then was raised a slave and soon
Was old enough to hold a sword and shield.
Into the ring he went and held his own,
And through the years he kept himself alive,
Though it was not always a pleasant thing.
He learned to read, to fight, to sing, to laugh
Despite the threat of death, impending doom
That daily knocked upon his door. Two friends
Made bright days otherwise heavy with gloom:
A chlovi cat befriended him, and fierce
They fought to keep each other safe, much like
Two soldiers who, during a battle fierce,
Defend a shared position in the dirt
And bond, becoming thick as brothers in
The struggle to survive, so too did cat
And gladiator forge a bond. Not just
An animal companion did he find,
but his young heart soon overflowed with love.
An Elomin he came across one day,
Handmaiden to a regular of the
Arena where he fought in day by day.
Amphia was her name, a woman sweet,
Who filled his days with happiness and joy.

Yet still, did Diomedes long for more,
Not just content to stay within the ring,
Awaiting for the day when he would die,
A sharp blade ripping through his neck or plunged
Deep in his heart, his black blood fountaining,
The flames extinguished in his eyes as his
Soul wings away, devoured by Chaos, and
Returning to oblivion. Neither,
However, did he wish to run away
And live a carefree life all free from pain:
A farm, a family, a simple life,
And at the end of days, lie down and die
As just a man, no more, no less – no name
Worthy of memory beyond the grave.
Anathema!

Thus, Diomedes knew
How he could carve his name among the stars.
For he was not a godless heathen, who
Believed that only Chaos ruled o’er all,
Nor even did he give obeisance to
The Force, like Jedi who bow down to it
And live by all its precepts day by day,
All thought of glory utterly subsumed
Under the service of the light side’s “will.”
Another tale might happily have found
Him serving as a Jedi brave and true,
For though his work was dark, his heart was light,
And often he’d protect the weak and frail.
But Jedi doctrine kept him from their ranks -
At first, attachment was his greatest sin;
He could not bear to leave his life behind,
Forsake his love, his friends, and most, his pride.

No, Diomedes did not live to serve;
His dream was to bring glory to his name,
The radiant thought of kleos evermore -
Like at the dawn, when sunlight bursts above
The sleeping sands of Tatooine, the two
Suns rising out of gloom and dazzling all
With blinding brilliance, bringing warmth
To chase the chilling night away. Womp rats
And banthas, Tusken Raiders, settlers too,
They all rejoice to bid the night adieu
And gladly welcome Tatoo I and II -
So glory warmed him, filled his thoughts with light,
Determined to live on and prove his name.
And thus the Force was not enough to serve;
Impersonal, no glory to its name.

Instead, a wicked pantheon he served,
A race of gods most vile, who ruled his world
With iron fist and tyranny. And yet,
These gods, these “Sith,” did Diomedes serve,
And daily would he pray to them for aid:
To Cruak he would plead for violent strength,
That he might conquer all his foes and live
To tell the tale. He prayed to Hesper, too,
With ardent vows, for her to twist his fate
Like spiders spin their home, weaving their silk
And crafting something gorgeously complex.
They fashion order out of chaos, so
Brave Diomedes wished his fate to change.
To tens of other gods he stayed in prayer,
With sacrifices, rituals, and more.

But one Sith Lord rose high above them all,
His patron god, to whom he pledged his life:
Dread Xarxes, dark of hair and fair of heart,
A noble king dwelling amongst the dark.
Although he wields the darkness like his blade,
Yet still light seems to pour from him, not just
A sly façade to lure victims to death.
Instead, Xarxes is truly just and wise:
A god of justice and nobility.
Like Dooku who, despite his heritage -
Nobility, pernicious in its scorn
For all beneath its station, born to rule,
Count of Serenno, Jedi Master – still
Pitied the planets groaning underneath
Shocking injustice perpetrated by
A Senate fat with wealth. His pity moved
Him to abandon all his hopes and dreams,
Becoming Sith out of compassion for
The galaxy. So Xarxes ruled not out
Of cruelty, but compassion, Sithly king.
And Diomedes worshipped him with awe,
Appealing daily that his godly eye
Would light upon the pits of Nyriaan
And, sensing promise from the lowly slave,
Deliver him to join him in the stars.

Thus Diomedes fought to live each day,
His gaze fixed to the stars to give new life.
He was not destined for the pits, he knew,
For Destiny looked back from far above
And chose him to become a god himself.
But Fate would not unspool as he had hoped,
For greatness is not freely offered so.
No shining god descended to redeem
Him from the misery of daily life.
The shining glory he desired so
Waited for him to seize it for himself,
Abandoning all bonds that tied him to
The lowly fighting pits of Nyriaan.
This realization was no pleasant thing;
His love for Amphia burned like the god
Who conjured firestorms, the Prince of Stars,
Begotten of a goddess so perverse
That all her worshippers went mad with fear.
Tradition had it that where’er his gaze
Befell, its object instantly was burned
To ash, a purifying flame that left
No quarter for the weak or cowardly.
So Diomedes’ love burned righteously,
Forsaking everything to keep her safe
And striking down the cowards in her path
Who sought to steal her from his loving arms.

The tale of Diomedes now you’ve heard,
What desperate straits began his humble tale.
Now Force compel me as I turn to prose
To tell the epic of the future Lord.
When next you hear of Diomedes’ plight,
He'll be among you as an acolyte.

​

 

[Xuul Zephyrot]

~Book II~

​

“Hesper- guide me.”

Sweet incense filled the dusty air, stealing away the rot of death, the stench of sweat and uncleanliness, the sickliness of mold and mildew. The sweet-smelling smoke enveloped him like a warm blanket as he breathed deep, relishing the gorgeous scent as it rose from the embers of a small furnace. Taking in a last breath of the calming aroma, he turned slowly to his left, facing away from the raucous laughter, shouts, and bustle that crept through every crack in the ancient wood door.

“Cruak- inspire me.”

The shrill bleat of a young lluma pierced the air of the small room as his dagger flashed across its throat, its warm blood spilling across his hands and onto the crudely erected shrine. He closed his eyes, one hand resting on its scratchy hide as its chest heaved in, out, in . . . and then with one final gurgle, expanded and moved no more. With careful, deft movements, his dagger moved again, gutting the small herd animal, carving out its meat. Arraying its meager cuts on a tray, he stooped to rest the tray inside the furnace. It would be ready just in time for him to toast his victory and the provision of the gods not long from now.

“Xarxes- protect me.”

Swiveling to his left again, he silently regarded a small wood carving nailed to his wall just above a shelf. A single open eye was carved out of it, and flame flickered just behind it – a small candle in an alcove he had dug just behind the eye. Dropping to one knee, he bowed his head, eyes staring blankly down at his sandaled foot as he contemplated the protection of his god.



At last, his head rose, and he reached out, opening the shelf just in front of him. From it, he withdrew armor, some made from cloth, heavy with pads, others made of bronze, gleaming as if filled with the radiance of the sun, polished so that not a single speck of dirt could be seen on it. Setting it on the table, he turned, opening the door a hair.

Already she was there, straightening instantly from her slouch against the opposite wall, arms uncrossing as she hastily crossed the noisy passageway and slipped past him into the small room. Once he had shut the door once more and faced her, her look of surliness, one well studied to avoid the over-eager gazes of nearby patrons, softened into the gaze he knew so well. The unstudied eye would see the same curtness as before, but to him, the small widening of the eyes, the twitch at the corners of her lips, it was like the sun bursting forth after a cloudy day, sending thrills of warmth across his skin as he beheld her crimson features.



"Amphia, my beloved!" he said, breaking into a gleeful grin, one unmistakable to even the most undiscerning eye as pure joy and affection. He strode forward, arms open, but she planted a red hand on his torso, palm pressing against his toga as her fingers lightly tapped his chest.

Amphia tutted, “Not yet, my beloved. Or have you so easily forgotten your oath,” her gaze pierced him to regard the bloody altar behind him, “to put away the taste of meat and wine and the touch of woman until next you spill blood?”

Abashed, he aborted his embrace, his features drawn into a quick frown, cursing himself for allowing his emotions to drown out his better judgment, “Of course, wise Amphia. You hold me to my oath.” Despite his inner horror at having so quickly endangered his holy vow, warmth once again blossomed from his heart, insuppressible, and his smile reappeared, “And for that I love you dearly.”

“For that?” Amphia repeated, her tone amused, “It is a good thing that Amphia is so wise and knows that her lover adores her for far more than that, else not-so-wise Diomedes might once again find himself alone.”

“That is no laughing matter,” Diomedes replied, smile fading from his lips, “For without you, my days would be like the weighty storm clouds that pass overhead, covering the land in somber darkness and casting a pall over even the gayest activity. They linger, rudderless, for days on end and then, at the slightest provocation, pour forth inexhaustible tears, their misery so great that all others must share in it!” Tears welled in his eyes at the thought of losing his beloved’s love, and he resisted the urge once again to take her into his arms.

“No,” he resumed, his eyes no longer filled with tears but instead fastened on Amphia’s face, full of solemn passion, “Your devout action in preserving my sacred vow is not the cause of our love, but a fruit of it. For you must know, gentle Amphia, that I love you for all the ways in which you reflect the beauty of the divine: your devotion to truth, your pursuit of peerless service, your wise counsel, your ravishing beauty, and above all, the purity of your heart. Let my affection be not misunderstood, for my love for you burns brighter than-“

Amphia let out a small chuckle and moved towards the table strewn with armor, “Hush,” she gently reprimanded. “You could spend a day standing and speaking with your passionate musings, my love, but now we have only a little time. Hurry and sit before the beauty that stands before you now hinders you from enjoying the beauty of your calling.”

“As always, you speak simple wisdom that rouses me from my never-ending musings! I thank passionate Arach for you, else my endlessly flapping mouth would spin cobwebs around me and leave me forgotten in some corner.” Diomedes shuddered at the thought, drawing a hand across his eyes as if to wipe these imaginary cobwebs away. He moved once again towards the table where his armor was strewn. “Then let us begin! The sooner you arm me, the sooner I may return to your arms!”

With a small nod, she approached him as he sat down on a spindly chair, and the two began to cover his simple toga and sandals with the tools of war, a sort of dance that they had perfected over years of practice.

First, Diomedes wrapped thick padded cloth around his legs, starting at his sandals and moving all the way up to his thighs, tying them tight before strapping two great bifurcated sheets of metal to his legs, far less quality than his other pieces of armor, but hardy enough to withstand a treacherous stab at the shins or lower thighs. Next, he removed his toga, standing to don a white loincloth and to buckle a simple black belt while leaving his chest bare. Amphia hefted the armor for his dominant right hand, fitting the great metal pauldron to his shoulder and attaching it down to his wrist, careful not to touch his skin, that his oath might be honored.

Turning back to the shelf, Diomedes withdrew a short sword and tucked it carefully into his belt. Next, he took a simple bronze wrist gauntlet, fastening it to his left arm. He took hold of a small bronze staff, no longer than one of the incense sticks still burning at the altar, and tucked it, too, into his belt. Finally, he withdrew a small necklace, the Eye of Xarxes, carefully slipping it over his head, so that the pendant rested against his sternum.

Returning to face him, Amphia carefully held a bronze helm in her hands, made to fit his head perfectly, the back left open to accommodate his wild shock of curly hair. Diomedes looked up (being, like many of the great gladiators, uncommonly short for a warrior) into her yellow eyes, as golden as the sun above, as she extended the helm to him.

“Now, my champion,” she proclaimed, “Go and win enough kleos to share with us both.”

Diomedes suppressed a sharp look at the naïve statement, the words piercing him deeper than any sharp sword ever could.

“That I cannot do,” he responded forcefully with a shake of his head, his voice incredulous, “As you know full well. The glory I win in combat goes to me, and to me alone, for I am the one that, by the providence of the gods, brought my opponent low. Five years now we have shared bunk and bread, such that our very thoughts often seem to entwine as one, and do you still not understand what I have told you?”

Tenseness momentarily colored the silence between them, Amphia’s face as impudent as ever, while Diomedes struggled not to allow his incredulity to harden into anger. Their blossoming love for each other had often been the only bright spot in a dim existence fashioned from blood and metal. Yet even this had not been free of pain, as Diomedes tried again and again to convince Amphia to bow before the gods, beg for their protection, swear fealty to Honoratus Xarxes. Yet still she persisted in rejecting the influence of the gods, only falling short of cursing them for the sake of Diomedes’ love.

Pain gnawed at his heart, but he fought back against it valiantly. At another time, Diomedes would have sat down, winged winning words at Amphia in yet another attempt to make her see reason. But now was not the time for them to trade verbal blows like this, not on the eve of battle, when the world itself arrayed against him, and only Amphia stood at his side.

His gaze softened as he beheld her, remembering the countless times she had nursed his wounds, listened patiently to his angry tirades and plied his conscience with wise counsel, even helped him to erect his shrines and altars. Her own selfless service was not without its own honour.

“But worry not, gentle Amphia,” he broke the darkening silence with words heavy with affection. He reached out, took the helm, tucked it under an arm, “You have won everlasting kleos already through your years of faithful service and wise counsel.”

Crossing past him, Amphia laid a slender hand on the door handle, “Then,” she said, her voice cool, “all I ask is that you return to me. That will be share in your victory enough.”

He stifled a sigh, her tone making it clear that she still disapproved of his fanaticism. Yet he could no more recant his oaths than he could cut off his own arm. Watching her, an idea sparked. He could not recant oaths he had already sworn, but perhaps. . .

“As I swore to fair Xarxes my oath of abstinence until my next victory, upon my own life,” Diomedes intoned, “so I pledge to fair Amphia now that I shall return.”

So saying, he bent in a short bow, shocks of jet-black curls falling over his eyes. A small smile crossed Amphia’s face as she shook her head in gently mocking exasperation. Releasing the latch, Amphia opened the door wide and stood aside.

This conflict could be resolved later. Now, as shouts and metal clangs echoed in his ears, Diomedes quickly forgot the dispute, the blood beginning to pump quicker in his veins, a grin growing on his face. No more words or glances spared at his love, Diomedes sauntered forth, shaking back his curls to raise and don his flashing helm.


The stone hallway was a cacophony of echoes, heightening the clanks of metal armor and weapons, the shouts of men with sparse armor similar to Diomedes, distant howls of beasts being uncaged and herded to their starting positions, the thunder of the crowd outside, even the whispers of servants gossiping to each other about the fights to come. The passageway was thick with frantic activity, in number and diversity appearing more akin to a bustling market on lower Coruscant than the back passageways of an arena on little-known Nyriaan. Likely it smelled even worse as well – Diomedes had seen grizzled Gamorrean bodyguards double over and vomit when entering the slave pens. Even Diomedes, who had grown up breathing the horrific stench, had to fight to let it drift into the background, as thinking about it too much was liable to lead to violent retching.

Diomedes shouldered his way through the crowd, some servants and novice fighters giving way with looks of awe, other more seasoned fighters remaining as stubbornly resolute as the wroshyr trees as Kashyyyk, shouldering the shorter fighter aside with glowers and spitting on his armor. He resisted the urge to clap each on the shoulder, spin them around and stare at them with fire in his eyes, challenge them to meet him with the same fervor in the arena. But he knew that they would lower their eyes, snort contemptuously, mumble some excuse. The stock of fighters had deteriorated shamefully over the last twenty years, a once thriving cast of heroes and warriors replaced by sullen brutes and cowards. Diomedes was the last of the old guard, the only one with any personal flair left in the whole litter.

At last, he reached a junction, turned down the short hallway down which yellow light poured. Just ahead of him, the stone floors gave way to slippery sand; beyond that, the passageway ended at a rounded stone arch, guarded by two sentries in armor, a stark contrast from Diomedes’ sparse armor – full-body, made of the plasteel armor worn by so many of the galaxy’s soldiers and mercenaries, the material made to deflect blaster shots rather than to counter a blade. Here, Diomedes stood stock-still, arms crossed, staring out past the sentries into the roaring arena beyond.

As always, excitement tugged at him. Despite his life being defined by this same pattern of anticipation and exultation, the heady adrenaline never ceased to appear as he awaited his turn in the arena. Perhaps it was because he had never known anything else that the threat of death that daily loomed over him like the Sith warship that occasionally darkened Nyriaan’s capital had seldom dampened his spirits. No, the thrill of combat did not leave him resentful; it was his only joy in an otherwise miserable existence.

As if following Diomedes’ thoughts, the filtered voice of one the sentries interrupted his train of thought, “About time,” the guard said casually, his impassive helmet turning slightly to regard the fighter, “Done with your little ritual?”

Silently grinding his teeth, Diomedes restrained himself from drawing his short sword and sticking it up the guard’s helmet. He knew he would be able to spill blood before the guard knew what was happening, feel the warm sticky blood spill over his fingers as the man struggled to slip away, helpless gibbering turning to wet gurgling as he choked on his own blood, his frantic movements finally ceasing, the body relaxing as the man slid down the wall into a soulless heap. But blasphemy was more virtue than vice here in these godless halls, and Diomedes knew that he would die a nameless, ignominious death for avenging the offense.

“It is no simple ritual,” Diomedes responded, careful to not let this resentment color his tone, lest the guards simply further capitalize on their power over him and utter more blasphemies. Instead, his voice was full of gentle amusement, as if speaking to a stubborn child, “but the invocation of the very gods. They now watch over me and protect me from all harm.”

The guard’s answering snort was nearly drowned by the clang of a great gong resounding across the arena as, high above the sand, an enormous Hutt appeared in the Grand Pavilion across from Diomedes’ post, raising a small hand in recognition of the cheers that erupted across the stands.

Diomedes withdrew the small bronze staff from his belt and held it vertically in his right hand, his fingers moving to specific locations and tapping them. At the last tap, bronze shot from both ends of the staff, one end meeting the ground with a soft thud, and the other jutting into the air and terminating at a spear point. He then tapped a button on the wrist gauntlet, causing a small round energy shield to shimmer from the gauntlet. “Come then, heathen,” he said, tilting his head to regard the sentry with a sly smile and preparing to walk out onto the hot sands, “If you doubt the gods’ protection so, come and meet me in the ring. My present fight should only take but a moment.”

“Hold, slave,” the other sentry cut in before Diomedes could make his exit, “Her Excellency Tarra the Hutt bade us pass on a message about that very thing.”

“If Tarra wishes to pass on a message, then She may do so Herself at Her leisure,” Diomedes countered airily, still taking small steps towards the archway.

“I said hold, slave,” the guard’s voice rose as he leveled his blaster rifle at Diomedes’ chest, the blaster whining as its safety was disengaged, “Or would you rather spend the day strung up in the dungeon instead of your usual fights?”

“Your threats have no weight,” Diomedes responded, his own voice rising, although he did arrest his movement, “My fights are far too profitable for Tarra to lose money on torturing me.”

“Not anymore,” the other responded, “Tarra has warned you that your fights are too quick. There’s no sport in it.”

“That is hardly my concern,” Diomedes returned, his tone growing annoyed, “My duty as a gladiator is to fight my hardest to survive each day-“

“Wrong,” the guard interrupted, stepping closer to Diomedes, rifle still raised, “Your duty is to be entertainment. Toy with your opponent if you have to. Let him seem to have an advantage until you turn around and destroy him.”

“Then any kleos would be forfeit,” Diomedes protested robustly, “I am not a jester, but a warrior. Such disrespect would make a mockery of far more than my opponent.”

“Wrong again,” the guard cut in, seeming to enjoy his display of power, “You are not a warrior, but a slave. Slaves do as their master tells them, or they are punished.” Before Diomedes could raise another interjection, the guard continued, “Furthermore, Tarra has instructed that you hold short of killing your opponent and let the crowd decide. Nothing gets their blood pumping more than being the jury that decides a helpless victim’s fate on their own whim.”

“Shameful!” Diomedes barked, blood boiling, “My opponent’s life is mine for the taking. I have won the right to end him myself and inherit everlasting kleos as my reward.”

“Save your religious ravings for that alien whore you drag around,” the guard snapped, “Tarra’s ultimatum is clear: Obey or be punished. Now go.”

Diomedes’ thunderous glare pierced the guard like two lightning bolts, and he stepped close in a flash, left hand grabbing the rifle, pressing it down as his right hand dropped the spear to the ground, drawing the dagger from his belt in a flash, pressing it to the man’s cheek. The other sentry shouted and raised his blaster, but Diomedes’ dagger moved quickly, leaving a deep cut on the guard’s cheek. He stepped back once again, holstering the dagger and picking up the spear once more, “The next time your foul mouth invokes fair Amphia,” he warned with a dark look, “I shall invoke crimson Arach as I remove your tongue.”

Immediately, he strode forth into the arena, hoisting his spear high as the crowd thundered, his bronze helm shining with the golden sun. All revelry in the crowd’s fervor was dashed from his lips; the din of the crowd now seemed muffled, as if rising from deep underwater. Fuming, he continued his march towards a small dais, his unwavering gaze fixed on the Grand. From the other side of the arena, two fighters crossed to join him on the platform, all turning to squint up at the royal box where the Hutt lounged, the sun behind her so that she could scarcely be seen.

Tarra raised her hand, and instantly the roar of the audience subsided to a low rumble. She slithered forward to the very front of the pavilion, a protocol droid trailing her, and spread both arms wide as the protocol droid began to translate: “Her Beauteous Eminence Tarra the Hutt bids you welcome to this the finale of the Illustrious Games! Thus far, noble guests, you have witnessed savage beast against savage beast and seen them devour unworthy slaves.” The distant howls of wounded nexus echoed in the silence as if to confirm these words.

“You have enjoyed many amusing oddities: speeder jousting, astromech duels, and more!” The Hutt continued. Diomedes shook his head; Tarra was really scraping the bottom of the barrel these days for entertainment, not having enough talented fighters to fill out a full show.

“But now," the Hutt paused to allow absolute silence to fall, “The time for frivolities is at an end. Now, you shall witness combat in its finest form. Behold, the reigning champion, slayer of Champion Tydeus, the raven-headed warrior: Diomedes!”

Again, Diomedes lofted his spear high, its razor-sharp point rising to meet the adulation of the crowd, angled conspicuously so that its point directly targeted Tarra. For no longer did a grin gentle his features. First, the spat with Amphia; next, the guard’s (and by extension, Tarra’s) malicious disrespect towards his honor and his very sense of self, and now this! To mention Diomedes’ slaying of noble Tydeus so casually . . . was Tarra trying to get a rise out of him? He glared up at the Grand Pavilion with jaw clenched so tight that it began to throb.

“But who could possibly challenge the champion who felled Tydeus, I hear you whisper among yourselves?” Tarra continued, ignorant of or unaffected by the champion’s withering glower, “Our beloved champion claims that it is his gods that have bade him rise again and again from his deathbed and grasp a sturdy spear once more. Who better, then, to meet him head-on than a pair who hunt their prey in the name of their own goddess?”

A snarl guttural enough to vibrate the metal of Diomedes’ helm at last directed his attention toward his opponents. Turning his head, he found himself staring at rippling muscles armored with hard green scales. He craned his neck back some, then more, finally finding the scaly figure’s head towering above his own. Two Trandoshans, armored in gladiatorial gear gazed down at him, teeth bared in a reptilian rictus, lizard eyes appearing strangely vacant.

“Here to fell our grand champion in the name of their Scorekeeper are the terrible twins: Hssdra and Cyclo!”

The twin Trandoshans brandished their weapons in turn with low snarls. The first (Hssdra, Diomedes presumed) wielded a great battle-axe, its razor-sharp blade glimmering in the sun, all grey and silver. The other, Cyclo, brandished a heavy chain with spikes on the end, sending the spiked ball soaring into the air to descend onto the sandy ground with a thud. Diomedes shook his head in exasperation. Such weapons were completely atypical of the traditional gladiatorial combat, but he was becoming used to Tarra throwing unusual monsters and warriors at him.

Hssdra turned back to Diomedes, growling something at him. Diomedes turned and made for the center of the arena, “I do not speak your savage language, beast,” he said over his shoulder, “We share almost nothing in common, save for our obeisances to our own gods. I’ll wager, though, there’s one common language we’ll be glad to speak to each other in.” Turning once he reached the far side of the center, he thumped the heel of his spear against the ground, then shifted his grip on the weapon to raise it in one hand, point directed towards the enemy, ready to throw or to jab downwards. "Weapons speak louder than words," he added with a fierce smile.

This seemed to more than please the pair, who raised their weapons with vicious eagerness and slowly shambled after Diomedes, approaching the center of the ring. As they drew nearer, Diomedes studied them carefully. Now that he was focused more on the impending brawl than on Tarra’s infuriating actions, the massiveness of the two Trandoshans became vastly more apparent. Rippling with grey and green scales, they walked with total self-assurance, beady eyes fixed unblinkingly on Diomedes, weapons casually dragging against the ground, cutting through the soft layer of sand to scrape unpleasantly against the rocky earth. For all their might and confidence, however, Diomedes spotted one or two weaknesses that he was sure he would be able to exploit.

The arena had completely hushed now, only the ominous scrapes of the battle-axe and the mace piercing the silence. Diomedes took advantage of this pregnant pause to grasp the pendant that hung about his neck with his left hand, then returned his hand to hold the energy shield in front of his torso.

With a mighty crash, the gong once again broke the still air. In an instant, Diomedes was on the move, closing the gap at a sprint, not content to let his opponents set the pace for the opening action. Hssdra’s great axe rose high in the air, and Diomedes rolled to one side as it came crashing down, picking himself back up nimbly and lunging forward with his spear. The strong spearhead struck true, landing a sturdy blow on the Trandoshan’s stomach. But instead of plunging into soft flesh – blood spouting from the wound and sending his opponent toppling to the ground, dropping their weapon to keep their organs from spilling on the rough sand – instead of this, Diomedes’ spear met with hard overlapping scales, his strong arm sending them splintering to the ground. No wound this time, but now a patch of flesh lay bare for Diomedes’ next blow.

Before he could rear back and strike again, however, the gods warned him to backpedal and regroup. He sidestepped quickly, attempting to arrive at Hssdra’s back as the Trandoshan spun with him, hissing, keeping his front faced towards Diomedes. The spiked mace split the earth where Diomedes had been standing as Cyclo swung it down.

Diomedes allowed himself a thin-lipped smile. Just as he had said, the gods protected him when he was on the field, warning him of danger that he could not otherwise have seen or sensed without fail. He was their chosen champion, and with their divine guidance, he could not fail.

Hssdra now loomed right in front of him, with Cyclo moving up behind Hssdra’s right flank. Not keen to allow both enemies to attack him at once, Diomedes continued his sidestepping until Cyclo was at Hssdra’s back. Hissing with impatience, Hssdra raised his axe again, this time sweeping it down diagonally instead of straight down in an attempt to bisect Diomedes shoulder to waist. Hastily, Diomedes brought up his shield as he moved to the right in an attempt to lessen the blow to his arm.

The axe smashed against the energy shield, causing it to surge with a buzz to meet the axe’s force. Although Diomedes’ movement did lessen the impact, he was still sent staggering back a couple paces. As the axe slid from his shield to the ground, however, Diomedes saw a golden opportunity, immediately leaping back to plunge his spear into the newly exposed flesh, splitting the skin and sending red blood fountaining. The lizard staggered, retreated, leaving the spear point to rip back out of the wound.

One simple stab wound could not fell the great beast, however. Eyes slitting further with rage, the Trandoshan slid the long-handled axe-head across the ground, not bothering to raise it up, letting it cruise across the smooth sand, aimed at Diomedes’ feet. Too much armor to risk jumping over the deadly slice; instead, Diomedes ran to the Trandoshan’s left, past the arc of his blade. Hssdra’s left arm shot out to catch Diomedes, nowhere else to run, grabbing his torso and flinging him back across the sand.

Retracting the spear quickly so that his flailing arms would not cause him to wound himself, Diomedes tumbled into the sand, digging fingers into the ground to arrest his movement. Coming to a hastened stop, he raised himself up quickly, only to see Cyclo charge forward with a roar, mace swinging around his head. Again the mace came crashing down as Diomedes rolled at the last minute. Scrambling to his feet, Diomedes dove forward, dropping his spear; he grabbed the chain and wrenched it towards him. The Trandoshan staggered forwards; he had wrapped the chain around his wrist to prevent the force from robbing it from his hands. Before Cyclo could right himself, Diomedes turned off the energy shield, jumping and wrapping both arms around the Trandoshan’s thick neck to send him tumbling to the ground face-first on top of Diomedes.

The Trandoshan struggled to push away, but Diomedes doggedly clung onto him with his left hand, his right hand scrabbling across his belt to locate the short sword. Cyclo half-righted himself, coming up on one knee, one claw coming down to swoop across the warrior’s face. Diomedes let out a yell as the claws dug into his cheek, leaving a mark much like the one Diomedes had left with the arena guard. Swinging his right arm forward with enough momentum to propel him to sit up, Diomedes plunged his dagger deep into Cyclo’s left eye, a crazed yowl escaping the lizard as he scrambled back, dagger still stuck in his eye.

Diomedes moved forward with the Trandoshan, staying at close range so that Cyclo could not take another swing with his mace without endangering himself. Now weaponless, he pushed at his opponent’s scaly torso with both hands, overclocking the backpedaling Trandoshan’s momentum so that he was sent sprawling on his back. Before Diomedes could capitalize on this advantage, however, Hssdra had caught up, left hand covering his wound as his right swung the axe viciously.

Eyes wide, Diomedes retreated quickly, the heavy axe thudding as it impacted the sand. This time, Hssdra had the momentum, and he swung again as Diomedes dove to the left, one hand bouncing off the chain of Cyclo’s still-dormant mace as the lizard wrenched the dagger from his eye socket with an agonized roar and struggled to rise to his feet.

An idea surged to the forefront of Diomedes’ head. As the massive metal axe rose once again to split Diomedes as he now lay on the sand, he grabbed the chain in both hands, raising it to meet the Trandoshan’s blade and jerking it to one side. The razor-sharp axe cleaved through the chain, leaving the mace lying in the sand, disconnected from Cyclo’s drooping chain. The jerking movement sent the axe’s momentum to one side, just enough room for Diomedes to swivel his body so that the axe impacted the sand just to his right.

He spared a glance back, quickly locating the minimized spear still resting on the ground a few feet from him. Rolling up onto his knees, he charged away from the action, scooping up the spear.

A moment’s pause hung in the air as Diomedes reactivated his shield and re-extended his spear, caught his breath, once again ready to jab with it. Hssdra moved toward him slowly, left hand still cupped around the raw wound, dragging the axe behind him with a murderous look in his eye. Cyclo, meanwhile, had staggered to his feet but now looked completely lost, the loose chain draped in one claw as he attempted to stanch the bleeding in his destroyed eye socket.

The wound in his cheek smarted with agonizing clarity, but Diomedes forced the sensation away, exulting in the moment as the wounded Trandoshans struggled.

Now was the time to end this. Diomedes sprinted forwards, avoiding Hssdra as he made a beeline for the half-blind Cyclo. The Trandoshan saw him coming, sending the chain cracking at him like an immense whip. Diomedes dove for the ground, following through a forward roll as the chain snapped above him and to the right with a deafening crack, his opponent’s aim hindered by the lack of depth perception forced upon him by his injury.

Emerging inside Cyclo’s reach on his blind side, Diomedes shoved his spear upwards with all of his might, sending his spear driving into the more delicate scales of Cyclo’s throat, the spear carving through the thin scales and through the throat, piercing clear through to the back of the Trandoshan’s neck. No time to realize his error nor to mourn his impending death, the Trandoshan’s eyes bulged, then slackened as his stance weakened, sending him falling to his knees as the spear plunged farther through him. Withdrawing the spear until its point once more dug into Cyclo’s body, Diomedes altered its angle to send it straight up through the Trandoshan’s head, splitting the skull and sending Cyclo toppling to the ground, chain slipping from his slack grasp, head pounding against the sand, sentience fluttering away into oblivion – dead.

A roar went up from the crowd, the entire encounter having lasted no more than a minute. Diomedes wrenched the spear from the limp body, pierced the air in a mighty victory pose as he smiled, face streaming with blood, both his own and his victim’s. As his gaze fastened on Tarra – the Hutt’s countenance stormy, clearly displeased with the swift kill, no time for the audience to determine the Trandoshan’s fate – the gong once again resounded through the arena, cutting the match short. Both Diomedes and Hssdra turned in unison to stare at the reverberating instrument in outrage as boos and cries of disappointment echoed through the arena.

Tarra appeared at the front of the Pavilion once more, raising her small hands to pacify the crowd, “This has grown tiresome, don’t you agree?” the Hutt rumbled, her voice murky with anger, “Again and again we have seen fighters spar in the most uninspired ways, watched them duke it out with absolutely no regard,” her eyes rested on Diomedes, “for the entertainment of this generous crowd, who each have spent millions of credits and reserved hours of their precious time to watch them do battle. This disrespect will not stand!”

The winning words turned around the crowd, their shouts mingling in lusty agreement, their indignation turning from Tarra to Diomedes and Hssdra, slinging abuse at the pair as they stood silently upon the sand.

“The time has come,” Tarra declared, voice ringing with conviction, “for a grand spectacle, unlike any event you have seen here today. Allow us a few moments of preparation, and you will soon be witness to the greatest fight you have ever seen!”

Cheers erupted from the stands, and the Hutt retreated, guards pouring from the wings to restrain Hssdra and drag him away. Another contingent of guards approached Diomedes, who wielded his mighty spear threateningly, as if daring any to try approaching. The guards parted, and Diomedes lowered his spear abruptly, shocked to see Amphia approaching him from behind the sentries.

“Tarra bids you follow me,” she said simply.

Still reeling with confusion, he stared a moment, then he coiled the spear and tucked its handle into his belt, reaching over to his left gauntlet to turn off the energy shield. Pointing to one guard, he then redirected his finger towards the fallen Cyclo, who was beginning to be dragged away by slaves. “Retrieve my sword,” he ordered the guard, sweeping his hair back proudly.

The guard hesitated, glancing at another guard with a pauldron, who nodded reluctantly then turned towards Diomedes, “He will retrieve your sword and catch up with us. In the meantime, follow the girl immediately.”

As the guard sauntered off, not appearing to make even an attempt at haste, Diomedes sighed, “Very well. Lead on.”



“So, the champion approaches,” came a booming voice as Diomedes trailed Amphia back into the wings. Diomedes squinted, his eyes adjusting to the dim light and then widening as he found himself face-to-face with Tarra herself, who seemed to fill the room as she towered over Diomedes and his entourage. The raven-haired warrior came to a halt, arms folded, staring up at the Hutt, surprised that she had scooted her way down here under her own power.

“What is this?” Diomedes challenged, his voice hard, “The Trandoshan was mine to kill, that I may gain-“

“Glorious honor, yes, yes, I’m well aware,” Tarra interrupted, waving her hand. Diomedes remained reluctantly silent, not bothering to correct the Hutt before hearing what exactly she had to say. The Hutt continued, “But you have disobeyed me yet again, Diomedes. How can I reward you the glory you seek when you insist on defying me again and again?”

“With respect, mighty lady,” Diomedes said, voice full of genuine respect but still husky with indignation, “The glory was never yours to deny, for it belongs to me alone through my victory. By allowing me to win shining kleos, you earn everlasting glory for yourself.”

The Hutt shook her head sadly, “Ah, my champion, how little you have learned. I could win all the glory in the world, and it would do me nothing, because,” she rubbed two fingers together, “I cannot spend it. And your antics, glorious Diomedes,” she emphasized the adjective with a mocking tone, “have continuously robbed me of that which I can spend – respect and money. Your string of victories has made gambling on your matches impossible. And your hasty kills, affording the crowd no time to spend credits on refreshments, nor to participate by voting on the life and death of your victims, have let countless credits slip through my fingers. A gladiator who cannot entertain is a liability to the whole operation, and in these times, I cannot afford it.”

“In these times, I am your only true source of income,” Diomedes shot back, anger rising in his voice, “Who would you rely on for your games without me? I am your last champion, the sole shining star in your collection of rabble and thugs.”

“You are right, of course,” Tarra responded with a sigh, “Without your presence in the ring, the last wisps of life in my once-mighty ring will fade away. However-“

A startled cry rang out, and Diomedes turned in shock as guards bound Amphia’s hands in chains. As Diomedes called his spear to his hand and activated it, he scarcely even noticed that he had done so without ever reaching his hand over to his belt. Guards rushed in from behind and in front of him, blaster pistols and rifles, stun prods and vibroblades, raised.

Tarra reached for a blaster pistol from a guard and leveled it at Amphia’s head, “However,” she repeated, “I am a businesswoman, and businesswomen do not close their businesses at a loss if they can help it. Today, Diomedes, you will assist me in recouping my losses and will help me to close the Grand Nyriaan Arena at a noble profit!”

Her mouth widened in a drooly leer, “Or,” she added, the blaster pistol in her hand powering up, “you will watch the swift demise of your prized lover, whose name will be instantly forgotten to all but yourself. I know how you dread a life forgotten by all, and with only you left to remember her name, your, no doubt, glorious death at the hands of my guards would be doubly tragic.”

Diomedes’ head spun, rage choking him so that he could hardly think, his eyes fastened on Amphia, who stood quite calmly, seemingly unconcerned at the prospect of impending death.

“Steady, noble Diomedes,” she said, yellow eyes flashing, “Stay your hand before you do something you regret. Follow Tarra’s instructions, and we may yet survive the day.”

“Wise words, slave,” Tarra said, eyes still fixed on Diomedes, “Well, champion? Shall we decide your lover’s fate here, or will you hear my words?”

Diomedes stood quite still, as if rooted to the spot. A hundred scenarios played through his mind – he dove in front of Tarra’s blaster bolt with his shield activated, the shot harmlessly splashing against the solid energy, only for him to hear a cry as a salvo of blaster bolts from the guards cut Amphia to pieces. Another scenario – he sprung straight at Tarra with spear raised, plunging the spear deep into the pooling Hutt as her tongue splayed out, and she sagged beneath him, and the guards training their blasters towards Amphia-

No.

Had not Amphia spoken and commanded him to consider staying his hand, one of these endless scenarios would have played out as Diomedes lashed out impulsively like a wild animal, Tarra dying a grisly death as Amphia’s body fell to the ground, her soul winging away, far out of Diomedes’ reach. But, as a beast tamer stands before a vast rancor and bids it to remain calm – his years of training and bonding stopping the rancor from following its first instinct, grabbing the trainer in its immense claws and tossing him down its gullet, chomping down on his legs with satisfaction – so Amphia’s calm words arrested the slash of his spear as no other could. He stopped, considered, and realized that he could not seek revenge and protect his beloved.

Not yet.

Once again minimizing his spear and returning it to his side, Diomedes fixed Tarra with a gaze so intense it was as if two spears had shot from his eyes, sharpened to a razor-sharp point, whistling through the air as they buried themselves deep in the Hutt’s fat.

Tarra let out a booming laugh, “So, the shining champion is stymied by his love for a woman. You will play your part in our curtain call magnificently indeed.”

Guards rushed around Diomedes, grabbing his arms and forcing them behind his back, manacling them together as they began to drag him away.

“Mark my words well, vile Jedispawn,” Diomedes spat at Tarra, struggling to stand firm, “My death will bring you no profit. Either release me, and we shall bargain for a profitable arrangement, or you shall be destroyed. It’s your choice. But I warn you not to underestimate my devotion.”

Tarra laughed again, louder, the noise echoing off the stone walls, “So very sure of that, aren’t you? You fail to realize your own circumstances. You are a small fish in an even smaller pond. As easily as you bested countless opponents in the ring, you’ve been brought to heel in an instant here. Your shining helm and mighty spear are less than useless against anyone wielding so much as a simple blaster. You might have prospered in the world of old, it is true. But,” Tarra laughed and knocked the barrel of the blaster pistol against Diomedes’ face, “The modern day has no room for those who cling to old-fashioned ideals of glory and honor; only those with the will and means to do anything they must to survive can prosper today.”

The guards redoubled their efforts to drag Diomedes away and succeeded this time. As Diomedes was hauled on board a wheeled cart and tied down, as he watched with horror as beautiful Amphia was bound with him in the cart, he heard the Hutt’s jubilant words echoing down the corridor:

“So die, Diomedes, last of the old kind, and take your ideals with you to the grave. There, you may at last reunite with noble Tydeus, the man you betrayed, and have peace. Rest well, champion.”



The guards had gone, leaving Diomedes and Amphia sitting alone in the chilly stillness of the wings, their arms and legs bound, the room silent except for the small echoes made by the adult lluma tied to the front of the car, and the distant roar of the crowd.

The silence might as well have been an overwhelming miasma of noise as Diomedes’ pulse thundered in his ears, his heart thumping, mind white with rage. His fingernails stabbed into his clenched hands with murderous force, and his muscles were as tense as if they had been held to a live wire.

“The old hag,” Amphia’s voice broke into his thoughts, as angry as Diomedes felt, “How dare she pit our love against us? As soon as I am free of this, I shall strangle her with my bare hands, if I must!”

The pounding in his ears faded as Diomedes listened to her voice. His muscles relaxed slightly as he turned towards her, then tightened again as he looked downwards, where her arm was bound against his.

“Curse the bloated slug!” he swore, “I have touched you before I have achieved victory, violating my oath to noble Xarxes – now his protection shall disappear like dew as the sun rises, and I shall be left to rot!”

“And I?” Amphia returned incredulously, “What of your beloved, ‘noble’ Diomedes? Can you think only of yourself in this dark hour?”

“My thoughts dwell neither on myself nor on you, fair Amphia, but on the stern visage of Xarxes the Allfather,” Diomedes spoke, words heavy with regret, “for without his guidance, I have lost the strength to preserve myself or to protect you.”

“Not so,” Amphia countermanded sharply, “Do not give up when the fight has only just begun. You do not need Xarxes’ protection to conquer your foe, nor have you ever needed it, but only your mighty spear and flashing shield – and me at your side!” she added, her eyes shining in the dim light like twin stars. “Whatever awaits in the arena, you shall strive nobly to defeat it – and this time I shall be by your side to conquer this evil, that we might both exult in our shared glory!”

The door of the wing began to open, the sun once again spilling across Diomedes’ face as the chanting of the crowd filled his ears. Despite the overwhelming noise of the arena and the blinding light, however, Diomedes found himself in a moment of stillness with his beloved. Where he would have sharply silenced her for her blasphemy ordinarily, he withheld his cutting words this time, sighing and grasping her hand in his.

“Either way, whether you are right or not, I have violated my oath,” he said slowly, a determined glint in his eye, “Therefore, I must rely on my own strength. But I shall fight twice as hard, that Xarxes may look upon me with pride for my mighty deeds and forgive my error, granting me his power once more. This I swear before all the gods!”

Amphia blew out a long breath, and Diomedes could just make out a small shake of her head before she turned to him, grasping both his hands in hers, “Then, my beloved, we shall do this mighty thing together. I pray that my love will strengthen your arm, just as your passion shall inspire me.”

As she spoke these words, the cart began to move, trundling slowly towards the cavernous exit and finally emerging into the roaring arena. Diomedes’ pulse began to thunder in his ears once more, filled with a strange dread like he had never experienced before. The sights and sounds of apocalypse thundered all around him; the end-times were at hand, and Diomedes could now only stand alone against the storm, no gods to protect him. Tarra’s words had (strangely, for a Hutt) rung true – this was intended to truly be the last event that this arena would ever host. And if that were true, Diomedes could not begin to imagine what vicious extravaganza awaited him beyond.

The sudden radiance blinded him momentarily, and he furiously blinked away the rays of sunlight. Gradually, his vision cleared, and a sight stranger and more foreboding than any Diomedes had ever seen within the circular walls of the arena revealed itself to him.

Three great pillars towered in the middle of the colosseum, a great chain dangling from the top of each. The Trandoshan Hssdra was tied to the rightmost pillar, his arms chained above his head. Eyes wild with anger and fear, his great claws grasped at the chain as if seeking to slice it in two with only his talons.

Amphia’s fingers tightened around his as she too saw the two conspicuously empty pillars to the right of Hssdra. Once again, white-hot anger began to course through Diomedes as he squeezed her hands in return, head rising from the sand and stone to gaze at the Grand Pavilion. There, Tarra lounged once more, surrounded by her retinue, the look of glee obvious on her face even from this great distance.

Unease once again scoured Diomedes as he watched the red pillars loom larger overhead. These chains seemed to imply an execution, but even when it was business as usual, Tarra would never waste a good slave on something as clean and quick as an execution. If blood spilled on the sand, there had to be sport and profit in it. And considering the circumstances of this particular day . . . his memory surged, and Tarra’s offhand comment rose to the forefront of his mind: “You will play your part…magnificently indeed.”

“Welcome once again, friends, noble patrons,” Tarra’s voice once again resounded through the arena, trailed by the protocol droid’s dutiful translation. “I have promised you a grand spectacle, and that is exactly what you shall now receive! Allow me a moment or two of explanation, and the great mystery of what you see before you shall be revealed.

“I am a studious lover of history,” Tarra began, her words measured but filled with anticipation, “and no subject pleases me more than learning the history of the gladiator. I have read tomes describing the games of the ancient Mandalorians and unearthed holovids of beast hunts and ritualistic combat from the Sojourn cabal in the waning decadent days of the Old Republic. Naturally, I have become fond of some of these and sought to replicate them in this very arena. Sadly, I have often been limited to whining slaves who refuse to put on a show and wilting wildlife that barely even qualifies as wild.”

As the cart finally slowed to a stop, and slaves gathered around the pair to unload them from the vehicle, Diomedes scoffed at Tarra’s self-pitying statement. You could hardly turn a corner now without running into a cowering slave hiding from their duties or a malnourished exotic beast creeping in its cage, it was true, but the blame for that rested entirely in Tarra’s tiny, money-pinching hands. The corners she had cut to maximize profits had left man and beast alike starved, and her fixation on spectacle had caused one after another champion of the arena to fall with no new blood rising to take their place.

“But today,” the Hutt’s voice rose in volume, “today, we will truly witness a page out of history!”

The sun had just begun to fall, casting in the arena in a warm red light. As the crowd waited with bated breath, a strange hush fell across the gathering as for a moment, despite the chains and the blood still soaking the sand, things seemed strangely idyllic.

Then, with a massive hum, giant stalactite-like red pillars surged all across the arena, and the buzzing of a thousand wings filled the air as giant insectoid aliens as big as a man flooded the sky. Diomedes flinched in sheer shock, mouth dropping as he watched the spectacle, almost forgetting about the slaves pushing him against the pillar and chaining his hands up above his head. What was this dark magic?

“Behold,” the Hutt exclaimed dramatically, “an extinct species returns from the dead to join our festivities!”

What foul magic had Tarra used to create these abominations? Diomedes seethed. Unless Tarra was an adherent of those Dark Lords with the power to resurrect creatures from the dead – and Diomedes knew very well that she was not – then this was heresy! Was this Tarra’s plan, to set undead abominations upon him to tear him limb from limb?

“But this is no ordinary battle,” the Hutt continued, “It is the last stand of a true hero and his comrades. In history, this hero miraculously escaped with the aid of an invading army, but now no such twist of fate shall keep these fights from reaching their splendiferously gory conclusion! No, the hero’s honor,” Tarra’s voice gained a slight edge of mockery, “shall remain intact as he battles to the death. Now, without further ado, let us travel back in time to –”

Three doors swung open around the arena perimeter. With the unmistakable crackles of shock prods, three vicious creatures sprung out of each threshold.

First, a full-grown chlovi cat, its shiny black scales glistening and shimmering with an unearthly turquoise refraction. It landed deftly on all four taloned paws, long tail balancing its landing, hissing back at the entrance where a sentry still held a shock prod at the ready.

Next, heavy hoofsteps seemed to shake the ground under Diomedes’ feet as a great mudhorn lumbered into the arena, its great white horn polished to a terrifyingly sharp point, its breathes sending sand billowing away from it in waves.

Finally, an ear-piercing screech rended the air, sending chills to Diomedes’ bones. A massive creature emerged from the final door, head bumping on the top of the threshold. It stood upon six legs with points each as sharp as Diomedes’ own spear. Its maw was a nightmare of rows upon rows of gnashing, sharp teeth, and it moved with unnerving agility. Diomedes’ heart sank. Somehow, Tarra had been able to afford a real acklay.

The three creatures moved forward slowly, all seven eyes fixed unblinkingly on the three chained victims.

“– the last stand of the Petranaki Arena on the eve of the Clone Wars!”