by Reiter
“Well, score at any rate,” Gantee replied and it took time for the laughter to subside so that Sryla could speak again.
“Then if you will allow it, the exception is granted!” Sryla’s body jumped from the cries of joy that thundered around her, shaking the entire arena. She smiled and waved at the people, slowly withdrawing to her seat. Though she tried, she could not remove her smile. She had seen right through her Vu-Prin and his aim. They both knew what the people wanted, but she had given the exception for Vradara to compete in the Final Round. The love for that act was hers to claim… thanks, in no small part, to SonBa.
As the crowd cheered, Vradara put her eyes back on her Vu-Zai. Her question had gone unanswered and as the people shouted, Ceden looked down on his Vi-Khan and nodded yes. Without any fanfare to speak of, Vradara returned to her place and looked over to Gantee, giving him a nod of great gratitude.
“None of this will keep me from beating you, Gantee of the Kith Z’Gunok,” she said.
Gantee smiled as he threw up two massive bolts of electricity which sparked, giving off a massive boom that silenced the crowd. “The Kith Z’Gunok stands ready,” he proclaimed as he was lifted from the from the arena floor on a pedestal of light. Suddenly, coherent light forms fell over all five contestants. Gantee was garbed in a Champion’s sash and crown as the images of the other four gamesmen bowed to Gantee before they faded. The people cheered loudly once again and Gantee quickly concocted another thunderbolt. “And I name Z’Gunok Dungias as my Second!” Throwing his arm out from his side, Gantee hurled a ball of light that sparked and flooded the wall with light through which his brother walked. He had shelved his anger, boiling as it may have been. Dungias needed to serve his family, help his sibling, and name his own path.
“Second? Did he say Second?” one patron asked.
“Is that allowed?!” inquired another, surprised at the notion of it all.
“No one has called a Second in ages!”
“Kith Z’Gunok, you and your Second are received,” the announcer reported.
“You need a Second to face me?” Vradara inquired and the people quickly fell silent, save for those who had to repeat what had been asked.
“Perfect,” Dungias thought as he came to stand behind his younger brother.
“Nothing of the sort,” Gantee was quick to respond, waving off the importance of the inquiry. “You have demonstrated nothing in the way of power that my shay-spawn Vu-Prin cannot resolve!” With the ebb and flow of volume demonstrated throughout the event, the arena drew to a new measure of silence; it sounded as if no one was in the arena – as if everyone had drawn their breath and held it!
It was, as Dungias had predicted, a very risky maneuver, chancing the disdain of those who had come to love Gantee more than their own families. Dungias did not move. He kept his head lowered and his eyes on the arena floor. Likewise, Gantee did not waver as his eyes locked on Vradara’s. He did not know if he should follow his Vu-Prin’s advice and say nothing more or attempt to explain his methodology more clearly.
“Challenge!” a powerful voice exclaimed and the arena erupted. The people were up and out of their seats.
“The Gamesmen will be given a moment to answer the challenge,” the announcer proclaimed. People summoned refreshments and wager stations to start making the rounds. This was going to be a memorable event.
The First Princess and the First Prince gazed heavily upon the Commander, as he was the one who had shouted, setting off the frenzy of the crowd. Their gazes, however, were not of the same composition or meaning. Sryla wanted to excuse him from the booth, which was the only thing she could think of short of ordering his execution. But she knew he was far too popular and too proven as a member of the Militia for such measures. SonBa, on the other hand, was most curious and recalled his Vi-Zai’s words again as his eyes squinted.
“Your ability with sonics continues to grow,” the First Prince observed.
“Thank you, my Prince.”
“And you approve of this?” SonBa pressed.
“I see nothing but Malgovi down there, your majesty,” Narwyss replied, summoning a wager station. “And the ire between the top two tiers is palpable!”
Suddenly, SonBa was reminded of something: just over three-quarters of the standing militia were shay-spawn, as military service was one of the more exercised of their options. Others maintained service capacities or labor-intrinsic vocations.
“And you would pit their kind against an iro-form manipulator?” Sryla asked sharply.
“I do every time we face an outbreak of Grenbi, your majesty,” Narwyss answered, opting to not speak of the times when his group had to pursue and apprehend ne’er-do-well Malgovi who often came with the distinction of Gan or Tel.
“But it is shay-spawn!” Sryla protested.
“It?” SonBa thought.
“He is solid!” Narwyss testified, noticing that he was heavier than the figure in question by only a few olig-gere. Recalling when he was that young, Narwyss had to admit his frame had not been as impressive as the one upon which he now gazed.
“All the easier to be struck by iro,” Sryla continued.
“He’s a bigger target all right,” Narwyss agreed. “That does not mean he is easy to hit, Your Majesty.”
“Are you saying that a shay-spawn is–”
“Forgive me, my Princess and heir to the Queen,” Narwyss said as he stood up. “But my oath of service is to the Throne and the Malgovi. And nowhere within that sacred promise does it designate whether I am to keep my oath based on whether the one I must protect can or cannot wield light. If I can fight for them, and more importantly fight with them, why then should I not be allowed to wager upon them?
“Now, if the Royal House will excuse me,” Narwyss said in softer tone as he looked away for a moment. “… it would seem the wager stations cannot access this booth. Your Majesties,” he said bowing once. “Duke MarrZo,” he said, bowing again.
“Commander,” both SonBa and Warseth said in acknowledgement. The Commander took his leave and the First Prince patted the hand of the First Princess, who gave him a slight smile and nod.
** b *** t *** o *** r **
“What say you, Cadre Quy?” the announcer asked. “Do you also take a Second?”
“The Kith Sythee will stand as her Second!” Orvo shouted in response. Gura looked at him questioningly. The young Malgovi shrugged his shoulders and looked around. “I don’t have anyone that will stand with me and be my Second. It appears that you share the same position. These are my first Games, I believe they are among your last.”
“They are and you make a friend for life this star-term, young Orvo,” Gura said as she nodded at him. She then looked back toward the announcer and smiled. “The Cadre Quy will bring a Second!”
“So be it. The Kith Sythee surrenders his place in the Final Round to serve as Second to Gura. What say you, House Adgurso?”
“I bring a Second!” Zarrak claimed, though he had no idea who it would be. At least with his response he would have time to ferret out the proper candidate.
“And Cadre–”
“She has a Second!” Kinjass cried out, hopping over the wall of the arena to descend, using Force, to the arena floor. The entire time he spent reaching the ground, Kinjass glared at Dungias who did not bother to look up. The announcer signaled for the contestants to return to their staging areas and await the horn to begin the Final Round.
“Well, Vu-Prin, you have received what you wished for,” Gantee said under his breath.
“Not yet,” Dungias quickly replied. “When you truly wear the Champion’s Sash, then I will have what I want!”
Trust is the hardest thing to find and the easiest to lose.
Anonymous
It should be discussed that the Malgovi are a thorough people, exceeding in a practicality which is abundantly clear whenever one was given occasion to observe their habits. During the antics of the early Rounds of the Iro-Games, it was perfectly suitable for o
ne to engage in all the screaming and jumping about; a tempered rampage. However, when it came time to make choices for the victor of the Final Round, and therefore the Champion of the Games, bragging and boasting were considered rude and unsightly. It was not uncommon to see a number of Malgovi in a pitched debate suspend their discourse and handle the circumstances of making wagers, only to resume when all parties had tended to their affairs.
A subsequent hush fell over the arena, where even the slightest breeze could be heard blowing through the construct, though no one was paying attention to the wind. It was just as well, for the silence was taken away by the sounds of robot drones coming out on to the arena floor where they began constructing the force-field generators that would be needed to contain the Final Round. A solitary Malgovi female, an engineer, walked out onto the grounds as well in order to monitor the assemblage of the devices and test their performance capabilities. While it had been some time since the last fatality of someone watching the Games, it was not entirely unheard of for one to lose their life due to some sort of mechanical error or the overwhelming capability of a contestant. While the Malgovi prided themselves on their ability to generate iro-forms, they were not immune to their effects.
The First Princess and her Vu-Prin sat in their chairs as their host paced. Duke MarrZo had tried his best not to seem anxious, but he had failed miserably in his hopes to remain calm, cool and collected.
“I will admit, when our Queen bade me attend these Games, I was not necessarily enthralled to see to her wishes,” Princess Sryla stated, feeling a bit nervous herself. “But here I sit, fully engaged and eager to see the conclusion of these events. Several records have been broken, and I’ve been asked to take part in a Royal exception to the rules of the Iro-Games. I must remember to thank our Vi-Zai upon our return, SonBa.”
“Our Queen truly sees through the Stars,” Warseth added, looking to the arena floor and flustered that he did not see the matter he wished most to view.
“That she does,” SonBa agreed. “And I thank those very Stars that I am her child and may delude myself to believe I wield a fraction of her awareness. What troubles you, Duke MarrZo?”
“It is this business of Seconds!” Warseth sharply replied. “It is unheard of!”
“Apparently not,” SonBa argued. “As it happens to be clearly logged in the records of the Games. I can attribute one of my own victories to the presence of a Second.
“And before you ask any forgiveness to speak of how long ago that victory might have been,” SonBa quickly added. “… perhaps you can tell me if it is the business of having a Second, or having one that is shay-spawn which troubles you.”
“Oh, that is another matter with which I wrestle,” Warseth said. “I do not know who Zarrak will choose to Second him. What could that boy of the Kith Z’Gunok have been thinking?!”
“Perhaps he sought to unsteady his opponents,” SonBa suggested. “They are, after all, young and inexperienced. And if his maneuver has such an effect on one with your accolades, my Duke, think of what it is doing to the gamesmen.”
“Have a care, dearest Vu-Prin,” Sryla said, touching her hand to his forearm. “You sound as if you are actually in favor of what Z’Gunok Tel Gantee has done. Nothing good can come of giving the shay-spawn a false sense of worth or hope. Charged weapons are not permitted in the Final Round, and while Commander H’Dalvi speaks rather highly of his fellow soldiers, brawn has little chance of besting iro-form.”
“Where has our good Commander gone off to?” SonBa asked, looking to change the subject. It was one thing to disagree with his Vi-Prin, another to do so openly in the company of Duke MarrZo. The voice and control of Sastra was trusted by the throne, but not necessarily by his Vi-Zai. Queen BaKedia had long since taught her children the difference between personal beliefs and the reflections of one’s station. While the Queen herself had a few misgivings about the House MarrZo, it did not serve the throne for it to be at odds with the Sastra Region. Following his Vi-Zai’s example, SonBa engaged in a search for his friend and mentor.
** b *** t *** o *** r **
H’Dalvi Vior Narwyss had passed by three wager stations before he stopped walking at the doorway of a stairway. He placed his forehead against the door and breathed out slow and easy, allowing his mind and body to relax, as that was the intention of the exercise.
“That didn’t take as long as I thought it might,” a very low and slightly strained voice spoke to him, bringing a smile to the Commander’s face.
“You have always expected too much out of me,” he replied without turning around.
“That is because you have this dreadful knack for delivering along the lines of the fantastic, and I’ve lost enough coin and credit betting against you.” Narwyss chuckled as he turned around to look at a shay-spawn many Malgovi had a problem calling such. It was not a term that the shay-spawn liked, and given the impressive and intimidating stature of the Sub-Officer Turo, it was not a word he heard too often.
“Sub-Officer,” Narwyss said as he turned around to face the mammoth Malgovi Rangeman. Like most shay-spawn, his skin was more gray than blue, but it was stretched over so much extreme muscle development.
“Commander,” Turo replied, crossing his arms and nodding at his commanding officer and brother-at-arms. “I came to report the ship has achieved a steady orbit and all conditions are well.”
“You came to report that, did you?” H’Dalvi smirked, holding up his personal communicator. “I take it something must be wrong with our own PC network then.”
“Not at all,” the soldier was quick to respond. “But I recall your distaste for using those things.”
“Around Grenbi, yes!” Narwyss said, placing his fists on his hips.
“Was that the only time?” Turo asked, putting his hand to his chin with the ease and delicate touch of a wind-blown feather. “Hmmm. Then I have exceeded my position, sir. My apologies.” Without another word, Turo turned on his heels and was proceeding to the nearest exit. Narwyss latched on to an arm, though it felt more the cabling used to tie away-ships to a makeshift dock.
“You’re here now, Sub-Officer,” Narwyss contended. “… you might as well stay and keep my flank.”
“Are you expecting trouble, sir?”
“Not with you at my flank, no,” Narwyss smiled as he walked to the closest wager station. Placing his hand upon the reader-plate, he could hear Turo snort his disapproval. “You don’t even know who I’m going to wager on!”
“I’ve known your every move since we were both at the academy,” S’Goorda Turo replied with absolutely no room for questioning in his tone, and Narwyss laughed at the quickly recollected memories. It was at the academy that Narwyss had come to a different understanding of the Malgovi culture. It had strayed far from what he had been raised to believe. Such an understanding had cost him the top placement in the graduating class, and most of the warm feelings within his own Houseline. Still, he was the only Top Tier Officer who graduated his class who was still alive, and he had Turo and three other fellow graduates, all shay-spawn, to thank for it. As he had gained in his knowledge, he had lost standing, and Narwyss had come to a new understanding about standing as well. Standing, as it turned out, was not the sort of thing that was important to maintain when one’s life was on the line! “You bet your heart and your instinct, and I’ve come to place the outcome of my life in the expression of both. It works in the field, against the enemies that these… Malgovi never hear of, never see, and will never know. In the megacities, it serves as a bane, my master.
Narwyss moved to answer and to do so in a tone not often used in Turo’s company. The hand he lifted to point at the larger Malgovi was caught in a grip Narwyss was not accustomed to experiencing. “And yes, you are my master!” Turo proclaimed, lowering his voice as his brown eyes stared into the eyes of his Commander. “I will rip the head of anyone who dares to counter my position!
“We live on your instinct when we are in battle,” Turo whis
pered. “But your instinct is not something these people want to see! You can’t force a bad stand, Vu-Prin! Not without taking casualties.”
“And my wager?”
“Arrange it so that your winnings, should there be any, are sent to your family account,” Turo replied.
Narwyss turned back the station to complete his wager, sighing and shaking his head in disgust. “And I was a fool to think I was the one in charge here.”
“Give an order worth following,” Turo retorted and Narwyss snorted a laugh. “What of this one who made Rangemen miss?”
The Malgovi Commander thought for a moment, reviewing what he had seen but doing so from a more distant perspective. “He’s fast and fairly clever, though I don’t think the genius used in the Games is his own.”
“Oh?”
“He has… one without iro for a Vu-Prin,” Narwyss advised, looking at his friend to measure his reaction. The large Rangeman’s eyes squinted in both wonder and pain.
“A standing family kept him?” Turo asked, reminding Narwyss of just how rare such an act was in their culture.
“So it would seem,” Narwyss replied. “And he’s a large one, about my frame and girth. But more importantly, he’s a thinker.”
“And you think he is the one who had his Vu-Prin make Rangemen miss?”
“I do.”
“Then double your wager, master,” Turo requested. “The men could stand a good meal.”
“That they could!”
** b *** t *** o *** r **
“What are you doing?” Gantee asked, having watched his older sibling labor furiously from the moment they had returned to the staging area.
“Correction, what am I finishing,” Dungias said as he continued to work. “With any light, I will be done in time. But do not concern yourself with me. You should be meditating.”
“I’ve tried,” Gantee said in a regretful tone. “It’s incredibly hard to focus.”
