Most weeks, Malcolm only managed to get into the arena once all eyes were on the action rather than the entrance. In all his months of trying, he’d only ever got to see one fight right from the start. Today made it two. He wriggled further under the bench and peered down. On the sandy floor below, Ganoir the Gallant gave the nod and lifted his sword. Sunlight skittered across the blade, sending swathes of flickering rainbows cascading over the arena. Oooh! Every mouth in the audience formed a perfect, synchronised O. An answering roar from the monster’s den rumbled through the floorboards. It was a big ‘un alright. Ganoir planted his feet in the sand and dropped into his fighting stance. As one, a thousand eyes turned to watch the den open.


    “Now, Bill! Ger-it-up, yer great lummox!” The guard strained against the door’s mechanism, sweat soaked palms slipping on the frayed rope. A huge vein in his neck threatened to pop at any second. “Hurry up, yer lazy git! The last suckers who din’t get the door open sharpish got told to nip down and use th’andle!”


    His fellow guard paled. Malcolm grinned. It was true too! One of the unlucky guards had lost a forearm in the encounter. Of course, Mal hadn’t been there to see it, but damn, he wished he had. With a final groan, the huge, iron door relinquished its hold. The arena held its breath.


    In an act sitting somewhere along the border of divine confidence and supreme stupidity, Ganoir turned his back on the open den and sheathed his sword. He lifted the grill over his eyes, tipped the crowd a rakish wink, then whipped off his helmet. A golden mane of hair, rumoured to be more god-grown than man, tumbled about his shoulders. Another equally adoring “Ooooh!” rattled the rafters. Ganoir shrugged, and in one smooth move, he tossed the helmet into the stands. The crowd went wild.


    Apart from Malcolm – Malcolm stayed put. He was too far back anyway. A souvenir wasn’t worth breaking cover for, no matter what reward it might bring at the finders’ market. He wedged his fingers between the slats in the underside of the bench and fought to stay down. His masterful show of self-control paid off, for while the loyal fans were scrapping tooth and nail over safety gear, Ganoir approached the den.


    Malcolm craned his neck. In most fights, as soon as the gate was open wider than a gnat’s chuff, the monster hurled itself out of its hidey hole and leapt for the fighter in a storm of hellish fury. Today’s monster was different. This beast appeared to be experiencing a touch of stage fright. It was certainly in no hurry to meet its audience.


    Growing murmurs of unrest circled the benches.


    “I’m telling you now,” shouted Benson the butcher, two rows over. “Somebody needs to get their-selves down to that den and tell that monster it needs to get a bloody move on! I’ve shut up shop for this!”


    “Good thinking! Off you go then, love,” said his wife. She leaned to let him pass, fingers crossed behind her back. On the sandy floor below, Ganoir folded his arms and tapped one foot. The crowd sniggered. The fighter scratched his head. He strolled away from the den, rubbing his chin as if deep in thought. Halfway across the arena, he stopped and turned to the audience with a spreading smile. Malcolm near swallowed his fist in excitement. Ganoir had a plan up his sleeve.


    The fighter crouched low to the ground, his hands weaving intricate, circular patterns in the air. Any monster fighter worth their salt could call up a skill without batting an eyelid, but the loopy stuff tended to add to the overall effect. Ganoir was preparing to use a stone, but which one? Malcolm struggled under the bench, feeling for the dogeared dictionary he always kept somewhere about his person. He flipped through the pages – one of the sword skills maybe? For all his showmanship, the fighter was an unknown quantity. Word in town said he had so many active stones he rattled.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    In one magnificent burst, Ganoir’s hands thrust towards the den. The gateway shuddered, and something large heaved itself out of the darkness. A crocodilian monster, at least thirty feet long, grey osteoderms glowing in the midday sun. Non magical weapons wouldn’t put a dent in that hide. The monster lumbered into the arena on its stubby legs. All the croc types were slow movers. They also all had claws like scythes that could gut a man with one swipe – swings and roundabouts. The croc followed Ganoir’s dancing hands. It paid no heed to the boos and taunts of the crowd. A mouth twice the length of Malcolm’s arm hung agape, lined with row upon row of serrated teeth.


    Hold up! In a suicidal move out of nowhere, Ganoir broke off from his finger fiddling and launched himself full pelt at the beast. Surely, he wasn’t going to jump into its mouth? It only looked like he was!


    The crowd gasped. Ganoir’s feet left the ground. He slid through the air like a ballerina on soap and landed in a crouch behind the croc. A relieved titter rippled the stands.


    Ganoir beamed – all shiny white teeth and home in time for tea. “HERE, KITTY-KITTY!” he roared.


    The croc blinked stupidly. The fighter straightened and slapped his thighs. A thrill leapt deep in Malcolm’s chest. Here we go! The croc paused as Ganoir neared. It lifted a long, grey snout to sniff the air. Thick strings of saliva swung from the corners of its slitted mouth.


    Ganoir stopped within sword’s reach of the monster’s tail, yet he didn’t strike. Instead, he lifted a hand and twisted one finger. A fiery whirlwind appeared above his fingertip, filling the arena with its keening screech. An air skill! Malcolm scrambled for his dictionary again. Air, air… His index finger flew across the pages. Hot air! Ganoir had a hot air lance!


    The fighter jumped again. This time, as he sailed over the croc’s head, he stabbed down with the spinning column of air. The keening screech intensified, joined by the croc’s gurgling groan as the hot air lance drilled out its right eye.


    The monster tossed its head. Blood spurted from its ruined eyehole. One more strike like that and it would be Ganoir the Greatest yet again. The fighter turned to the crowd.


    “Head or tail?” he roared. “Tail?” He waved at the croc. A scattering of silver coins tumbled down from the benches. “Or head?” More coins rained down. “Sure about that?”


    Malcolm tucked his head back under the bench as the coins fell. Taunt ‘em and flaunt ‘em – the age-old monster fighters’ motto.


    “Or how about…” Ganoir swiped a hand over his torso. The air before him blurred, and the fighter stepped up like he was climbing a flight of stairs. Malcolm clapped a hand to his mouth to stop the squeal of delight in his own deduction skills. Walking on air! It had to be. Only the best paid fighters could afford to specialise.


    One by one, Ganoir mounted invisible steps until he stood thirty feet above the ground. He hovered there, nodding regally and throwing out the occasional cheery wave. Below him, the monster turned in slow, confused circles. The crowd surged to their feet, stamping and cheering. Malcolm wriggled. It was hard enough to get a decent view when everyone was sitting down, never mind when they all stood up. Well, he wasn’t about to miss the big finale. Some people said Ganoir had an air of mystery skill too, except nobody knew what it did – including Ganoir. Imagine getting to see that in action!


    A sudden flurry sounded from the centre of the arena. Malcolm’s head shot out from under the bench and up through the nearest pair of legs. Then, three things happened at once: a woman screamed; a firm hand latched onto Malcolm’s left ear; and the monster reared onto the very tip of its tail, pulled off a perfect pirouette and neatly tore Ganoir the… Gutsy in two.