In Her Name: The Last War by Michael R. Hicks Page A

yet they had seen so few. There were arched portals arranged around the sand of the circular arena, and above...
    He paused, another wave of awe momentarily suppressing his fear. Above him was a blue sky, slightly tinged with magenta, and a bright sun. It didn’t just look like it was outdoors, as if it were a good projection or hologram, it felt like it, too: the radiant warmth on his face from an alien star, just the touch of a breeze, and faint odors from what must be some type of alien flora, and not the scents they had noticed thus far on the ship , which had mostly reminded him of cinnamon. There was a palpable sense of scale that he had only ever felt planetside, almost as if they’d been teleported off the ship and onto an alien world. 
    But when he turned around to look behind him, the passageway and the portal through which they’d entered were still there. 
    After a moment of allowing the humans to gawk freely, their guards again ushered them onward. Descending through a set of wide, curved steps, Ichiro followed the others into a large anteroom that let onto the sands of the arena through one of the portals that he’d seen earlier. He half expected there to be torches on the walls and gladiators preparing themselves for combat.
    When black-robed aliens entered the room, he realized that while the light was coming from the walls and not ancient torches, there were indeed gladiators here: he and his shipmates. 
    The warriors took up positions along the walls as the robed ones brought in a veritable arsenal of weapons, from daggers and throwing knives to spears and pikes, and swords of a bewildering variety. They arrayed them carefully on several low benches clearly tailored for the purpose, then stood off to one side.
    * * *
    The ritual had its origins in time before legend, and the aliens were not expected to understand. As with many things in the lives of those who served Her, tradition and ritual reminded the living of the past, and were a mark of the personal discipline and obedience of Her Children. 
    These aliens, the survivors of the original crew, would fight for the honor of their race. They likely would not comprehend why they were about to die, and win or lose, it would not avert the fires of war that would soon descend on their worlds. It was for the sake of honor, and honor alone. The outcome was inevitable, for in this ritual there were no survivors, save one: the Messenger, who would be spared to tell the tale of what had happened here. And to tell of what was soon to come. 
    After the armorers had laid out a suitable assortment of weapons the aliens could arm themselves with, should they choose, the bearers of water brought food and drink. The builders had replicated samples of the food and liquids aboard the ship, based on what the healers had told them would be appropriate. Fearing a trick, no doubt, one thing they need not have feared from their hosts, some of the aliens refused the refreshments; others consumed what they would. 
    The priestess watched them with her second sight, content to let the aliens eat in peace. When they had finished, she nodded to her First, who commanded that the warriors and clawless ones enter the arena and take their seats, spectators to the ritual combat that was soon to begin.
    As they quickly filed into the arena’s stands, the priestess decided that it was time to greet the aliens herself, and guide them in what must be done.
    * * *
    McClaren had forced himself to eat and drink something, not so much because he was hungry or thirsty, but because he suspected he would need the energy soon. He was also trying to lead by example, as some of the crew feared that the food or drinks, which included water, coffee, and beer, of all things, might be poisoned. But McClaren figured that the aliens could kill them a million different ways, and poisoning didn’t seem to be their style. Their preferred methods of mayhem and murder seemed a bit more direct.
    The other