“What’s going on?” IT asked.

“Shh,” Marigold said. “I told you to be quiet.”

“I tried, but it’s hard. I want to know what’s going on.”

“We’re going to try our best not to die,” Marigold said. “Now be quiet.”

Maxwell tried to ignore the exchange. He did not like where things were headed. He had never been in a fight in his life. He had never even come close. Anytime someone was mean, rude, or needlessly aggressive, Maxwell would laugh awkwardly and make a series of self-deprecating jokes until his aggressor realized there was not much point in asserting dominance over someone whose back was so completely devoid of bones.

He was terrified about having to fight, but at least Marigold and Walter would go first. He could watch and learn and hope that fate would intervene on his behalf before he was pummeled by something large and hungry.

Maxwell looked at the assembled crowd. They would probably be disappointed if they didn’t see at least one pummeling. Many were frothing at the mouth and howling with enthusiasm. Yet as the moments ticked onward, it became clear that no one knew who was supposed to start the ceremony. The crowd looked to the guards, who shrugged and looked back at the crowd. To stem the rising tide of hopeful, crowd-sourced violence, Marigold stepped forward and directed the ceremony herself.

“We have come to the Hollows in search of sanctuary,” she called out in a booming voice that filled the arena. “The world above is callous and shallow. We three can stand it no longer. We stand before you as gods and demons, unbowed by the oppression of the machine and unbroken by the wheels of what they call progress.”

The crowd erupted into a roar of approval.

“She’s very good at this,” Walter whispered to Maxwell.

Marigold paced the floor, sizing up the crowd. “Who would challenge us? Who would test our worth?”

The roar gave way to awkward silence. Evidently, most of the crowd had more of a thirst for the spectacle of blood and little need to sample it firsthand. Nevertheless, two creatures stood up out of the thousands in attendance. One was a flaming horse, the other a blue giant.

“I see you, proud beasts and noble warriors, you honor us.”

The two creatures moved into the aisle and descended the stone stairs.

“Is there not a third creature that is brave enough to offer a challenge? Surely, one amongst you would test themselves against us.”

The ensuing silence was broken by a cough from one of the fluff-balls at the back. “Um, ma’am, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I believe there is a third challenger.”

Maxwell looked over at the stairs and saw a small creature he had not noticed before. It was hard to see at this distance, but it appeared to be a gerbil. Not a giant, god-sized gerbil, just a gerbil, wearing some kind of green cape and descending the stairs very slowly, each one being twice the size of her small furry body.

“You honor us,” Marigold called out.

As the three challengers took up their positions at the back of the arena, Marigold quickly returned to the bench where Walter and Maxwell were sitting.

“Remember when you asked about unicorns?” she said to Maxwell.

He looked over at the horse-like monster. The creature had razor-sharp hooves, a flaming mane, and a glistening metal point jutting out from the center of his head. He bared several rows of pointy teeth at Maxwell.

The giant was no less terrifying. He was round and moist and resembled a beached whale learning to stand upright on his fin. Despite the giant’s size, he didn’t look very intelligent and kept staring off into the distance with a trail of drool hanging from his open mouth. Intelligent or not, the two blade-like appendages that took the place of arms didn’t look like they required much intellect to operate.

The gerbil was good though. Maxwell liked his odds against the gerbil.

Marigold removed her bag and handed it to Maxwell.

“What’s going on,” a voice called from the bag. “Are we fighting? Do you need me to fight?”

“Shh,” Marigold said. “I’m going to take the unicorn. No offense, but I don’t think either of you two could handle him.”

Maxwell nodded, probably a little too enthusiastically.

“I suppose that means I’m fighting the big blue thing,” Walter said before letting out a sigh.

“Trust me, you’re getting off easy,” Marigold said, giving Walter a pat of reassurance on his knee and turning around to face the crowd.

“As my challenger, I select the unicorn,” Marigold said.

The creature took this as a cue to move from the back of the room to the center. The clanking of his hooves against the stone ground covered the tense silence. The two figures stood in the center of the arena, close enough that Maxwell could hear them speak.

“A battle of strength or a battle of wit?” the unicorn asked.

“I’m glad someone here remembers how this is done,” Marigold said.

“And?”

“Strength,” she replied.

“What a terrible choice,” the unicorn said.

Without further warning or ceremony, the flaming horse charged forward, kicking up small clouds of dust as he propelled himself forward.

Maxwell was not sure what Marigold could do. She did not have her trusty bag with her, and her normal kick-based combat style seemed hopeless against the unicorn’s horn and fiery mane. She lowered herself down to the ground on all fours, and just as the unicorn came within striking distance, she jumped.

The jump took her far, but not far enough. The unicorn arced around and made for her again. He was impossibly fast and tore across the arena like a rocket. This time, she remained in place even longer, leaping over her opponent's head as he drew close. He charged again, she leapt again. This carried on for several minutes. The horse barreled toward her only to come up empty-horned.

Maxwell wondered if Marigold was trying to tire him out. If so, it didn’t seem to be working. The unicorn only seemed to be getting angrier.

A bellow like a crack of thunder sounded as he barreled toward her again, faster than before. He blazed yellow and white across the arena, lowering his head as he neared the stunned Marigold.

She was ready to jump again, but her opponent was ready, too. As she vaulted into the air, he jerked his horn to the left and tore into the flesh of her leg.

A terrible wet ripping sound echoed through the chamber.

Marigold groaned and fell to the ground. The crowd cheered.

Maxwell grimaced and held his breath. He had never seen Marigold in real danger before. She returned to her feet, but Maxwell could see a definite expression of concern. He turned to Walter, seeking something—anything—they could do. Walter did not return the look. His eyes were trained on Marigold, as she struggled to her feet, now bleeding from the wound on her leg.

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The unicorn stopped to laugh, striking his front leg against the ground.

“You made a poor choice. You might not have died if you had chosen wit.”

Marigold wasn’t listening. She was frantically tearing a strip off her apron.

This was it. The unicorn seemed to see his opening. He lowered his head again and surged forward to finish off his prey.

Marigold stopped. Cloth in hand, she looked up and locked eyes with her opponent.

He charged.

She jumped.

Blood spilled out onto the floor of the arena as Marigold sailed clean over the unicorn’s horn and landed neatly on the creature’s back. It was not a bandage she had been fastening from her torn apron, but a crude bridle. She looped it around the unicorn’s horn and held on for dear life.

The unicorn thrashed, lashing his fiery mane back and forth. He was furious, and fire flared bright from his head. Marigold was unphased, dodging the fire by dancing in place. The duo almost tumbled into the audience as the unicorn cursed and shouted at Marigold’s attempt to turn a noble blood sport into a rodeo event.

A look of shame gradually came over the unicorn’s face as he realized he had lost. His movements weakened, and finally, he came to a stop.

“Do you yield?” Marigold shouted.

The unicorn muttered something low and quiet, which caused Marigold to leap from the creature’s back.

“Good choice,” she said.

The creature glared back and trotted off to the corner.

The effort had clearly caused Marigold considerable pain, and though she tried to look strong, her walk back to the bench was slow, and her limp pronounced. Maxwell patted her on the back as she sat down.

“Not as scary as I thought,” she said. She retrieved her bag and fashioned a real bandage, wincing as she wrapped it around her ankle.

*

Walter was up next. He stood and stared at the giant at the far end of the arena. “At least mine doesn’t look very bright.”

“Good luck,” Maxwell said.

“You’ll be fine,” Marigold said.

Walter made his way to the same starting spot Marigold had been standing at minutes ago. Maxwell wondered if he too was going to make a speech, but the demon was evidently not one for dramatic proclamations. The eyes of the crowd seemed to make him more nervous than the battle in front of him. He waved awkwardly at the giant, who took this as a cue to lumber toward Walter.

The blue behemoth came to a stop in the center of the arena and spoke in the deepest baritone Maxwell had ever heard. “Strength or . . . uh, strength or . . .”

“Wit, I choose wit,” Walter said.

The giant looked angry and perplexed. “What?”

“I would like a battle of wits.”

There was a long silence.

“Thinks it's smarter than me?” the giant asked.

“Well, I suppose we shall find out.”

This comment further enraged the giant. He stomped his foot and furrowed his brow.

“Thinks it's smarter than me?” he asked again.

“I mean, I suppose if put on the spot I would say—”

“Not smarter than me,” the creature said, vibrating with rage. “Not smarter than me.” The giant let out a low moan as he raised his blade arms in the air and stumbled toward Walter.

“Die,” he shouted, which did not sound very witty to Maxwell but seemed to succeed in effectively scaring the wits out of Walter. Walter moved back out of the way of the descending arms, which crashed into the floor below.

Fortunately, the creature was even slower than he appeared. Walter easily evaded his attacks, but that did not mean he was any closer to defeating the goliath. Snapping his wings out, Walter took to the air and flew around the creature in tight circles. Maxwell was not sure if he was sizing the creature up or simply trying to escape a fight. The giant swatted at him as if he were a fly but was not even close to connecting.

Marigold leaned over to Maxwell. “He has fire breath, you know. All t’vaz demons do,” She shouted at Walter, “Use your fire breath!”

Walter looked down at them. “I can’t—I—it’s been a long time,” he shouted back.

The distraction gave his opponent the chance it was looking for. The tip of the giant’s hand glanced off Walter’s face, and though it did little damage, it was enough to bring Walter crashing to the ground with a dull thud.

“See, not smart,” the creature said. “Not smart at all. I am smart. I am win.” He danced in place with glee before adding, “Die now,” and brought his bladed arm toward Walter’s stomach.

Walter regained his senses in time to roll out of the way of the incoming attack, and instead of plunging into the demon’s belly, the appendage found a home several feet deep in the arena’s stone floor. The giant tried to regain himself but was unable. The arm was stuck. No matter how hard he tried, the arm wouldn’t budge. In a last desperate attempt to free himself, he brought his second arm crashing down on the ground next to the first, but it too became lodged in the stone. The creature let out a desperate roar. It was a sad spectacle, and the crowd grew silent with pity.

“Do you yield?” Walter asked, clearly imitating Marigold’s cocksure manner.

“No. No yield,” the creature screamed, but it remained firmly in place. Walter looked around, unsure what came next.

“I think you should yield.”

“No yield. One second.”

Walter looked over at the fluff-balls.

“Do I win?” Walter asked.

They consulted one another again, and after a few moments, nodded at him. There were a few scattered claps, but the outcome of the fight disgusted and disappointed much of the audience. It was all a bit difficult to watch.

“No yield. No yield,” the creature said.

At last, he freed its arms, taking a substantial portion of the floor with them, but it was too late. Walter was already sitting down again, and the creature sulked as it walked back the way he had come.

Marigold handed Walter a handkerchief and he dabbed at the small oozing wound on his face.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Walter said.

“Why didn’t you use your fire breath?” Marigold asked.

“I don’t like what it does to me,” Walter replied. “I don’t think you would like it either.”

“Why what does it to you?” Maxwell asked. He looked over at Walter, but the demon pretended not to hear.

“I think you’re up,” Walter said, ignoring the question.

*

Walter was right. The crowd was growing impatient, jeering, and shaking bestial appendages at Maxwell. They clearly hoped this last bout might give them the blood spectacle they had so far been denied.

“I just go up there and fight, is that right?” Maxwell asked.

Walter and Marigold nodded at him. Maxwell hesitated. He was hoping for something more than a nod.

“You’ve got this,” IT said from the bag. “Crush your enemy. No mercy.”

“Shh,” Marigold said. “The robot is right though. I was worried about you fighting given your general . . .”

“What?” Maxwell asked.

“His cowardice?” Walter offered.

“His fleshiness?” IT added.

“I was going to say vulnerability, but considering his opponent, I don’t think anyone needs to worry.”

Maxwell followed Marigold’s gaze. The tiny gerbil was making her way across the floor of the arena. It was taking her quite some time.

“I guess I should try not to squish her,” Maxwell said.

He stood up, and Marigold patted him on the back a little too hard. It sent him stumbling over to the starting area.

The gerbil came to a stop in front of him. “I’m Elvie the Stalwart, and I thank you for accepting this challenge.” She bowed deeply.

“I’m, Clothos, the um, raggedy,” he said, returning the bow.

“A test of strength or a test of wit?” she asked.

“Is it bad if I say strength? I mean, I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m not sure what wit entails at this point and—”

“I accept,” Elvie said. Pulling the tiny dagger from her side, she held it up to her face and saluted Maxwell. She then turned to the fluff-balls and saluted them as well, before turning back to Maxwell.

“Oh, I guess, we’re starting,” he said.

Before Maxwell could even draw his next breath, Elvie tore across the floor toward him. He had no weapon and no plan of attack. He kicked out clumsily, but the gerbil was already on his boot. She used the dagger to scamper up to his calf, where she quickly and repeatedly stabbed him.

“Ow! Ow! Oh God, stop it!” Maxwell said. He tried his best to shake her off, but she was already moving around the back of his leg and climbing up him faster than he thought possible. Knife in hand, she was ascending his body as if he were a mountain.

“Stop it, stop it!”

He tried to swat at Elvie, but she used the occasion to jump onto his right arm and continue her climb, making her way to his shoulder one tiny prick at a time.

Maxwell was so shocked that he stumbled over the divot left by the giant and fell onto his back. The gerbil was on his face now. Normally, the idea of a rodent being so close to his mouth would have disgusted him, but he was more preoccupied with the knife the creature was dangling over his eyeball.

Why hadn’t he picked wit? What was the worst that could have happened? A puzzle? Some sort of riddle? He had never been in a proper fight in his life and wished desperately he had not started now. Picking on someone smaller than himself had seemed a safe bet, but it had taken less than a minute to be proven wrong.

With one eye closed, he looked up at Elvie, wondering why the last strike had not come.

“Swat me away,” she whispered.

Maxwell wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “What?”

“Quick. Make it look real. Swat me away.”

Maxwell didn’t need to be told again. He hit Elvie away with the back of his hand and sent the small gerbil sprawling across the ground. He got up and walked over to Elvie, who was pantomiming a struggle to get up.

“Raise your foot like you’re going to stomp on me,” she said.

He did as he was told.

“I yield. I yield,” she said.

Of course, the crowd could not hear the gerbil’s high-pitched surrender, but a moment later, she was on her feet and bowing to Maxwell. He was confused, but not as confused as the crowd. The reversal had been too sudden, and Maxwell did not even earn the perfunctory scattered applause that Walter had received.

“Thank you,” he whispered and walked back to Marigold and Walter. Marigold handed him a tissue and he dabbed at the small spots of blood on his arms and legs.

“What happened? Why did she give up?” Maxwell asked.

“I wonder,” she said.

Maxwell and Marigold both turned to look at Elvie, but she had already disappeared.