by R. L. King
“Oh. They said I was stealin’ from the factory where I worked.”
“Were you?”
“Was I what?”
“Stealing from the factory.”
“Oh.” The man focused on a small area of the floor, scrubbing vigorously to get a stain out. “Yeah, I guess I was.”
“Quiet over there!” snapped one of the guards, who’d come patrolling around the corner. “If you’ve got energy to talk, I’ll find you more work!”
Stone returned to his work with a sigh. It was good to hear another voice that wasn’t his captors, but his own company seemed more intellectually stimulating than Tomba’s. The young man, eyes fearful, turned his back on Stone and concentrated on a different part of the floor.
After Stone finished his own section of floor, the guard ordered him to carry cans of rubbish to an incinerator in an adjacent room. Two more guards were stationed in there, keeping careful watch on the proceedings—they probably don’t want to give the prisoners unfettered access to fire, Stone thought sourly. Afraid they might toss themselves in instead of the rubbish.
He gripped the heavy can and tried not to drop it while he waited in line behind two other prisoners. He was keeping himself occupied by going over a spell formula in his mind when he thought he heard the word “Stone.” He stiffened, forced himself to relax so his reaction didn’t reach his aura, and focused on the guards’ conversation. It was hard to hear clearly over the sound of the other prisoners dumping the garbage in the incinerator.
“—that one’s trouble, I hear,” one was saying to her partner.
“—won’t be here much longer,” the other one said. “I hear he’s being sent to the Arena tonight.”
“—too bad, he’s a good worker.”
“—lazy, like most of them—don’t question the word from on high—”
Stone shifted his gaze sideways just enough to get a brief glance at the guards in his peripheral vision. This didn’t sound good. What was the “Arena”? Were they talking about him? Had he been mistaken thinking he’d heard his name? What—
He tensed.
The two guards were looking directly at him.
Quickly, he jerked his head back and focused, heart pounding, on hustling the can forward. When it was his turn, he tossed the rubbish in the incinerator’s yawning, fiery mouth and then hurried out with the empty can. He didn’t look at the guards as he did, but wondered if they were still watching him, or if they’d realized—or cared—that he’d overheard them.
The Arena? What could that be? A different work assignment, somewhere else? Some kind of punishment? As far as he knew he hadn’t done anything wrong—he’d done what they’d ordered him to do and hadn’t made any trouble as he continued his futile attempts at working out an escape attempt.
As he put down the empty can and waited to pick up another one, he noticed Tomba shuffling nervously behind him. He’d apparently finished his floor section and been given garbage-can duty too. Stone glanced forward; there were two other prisoners ahead of him picking up cans. Quickly, he turned half-sideways, looking back over the kitchen, and muttered, “What’s the Arena?”
“Huh?” Tomba looked startled and nervous to be spoken to again.
“The Arena. What is it?” He cast a quick look in the man’s direction.
Tomba eyes got wide. “The Arena? You don’t wanna know about that.”
“Tell me.”
He shook his head several times, his gaze cutting toward the guard who, so far, was ignoring them. “L-leave me alone. Stop asking me stuff.”
“Just tell me what it is, and I’ll stop.”
“Nobody comes back from it. Not ever. It’s where they—” He yelped as the guard hit him with a crackling bolt of energy.
“Keep moving! No talking!” the guard snapped. “If I have to say it again you’ll regret it!”
Stone stumbled forward and picked up another can. When he risked a look behind him, he saw that one of the guards had taken Tomba out of line and was hustling him over to another section of the floor, far away from where he and Stone had worked before.
Barely noticing the weight of the smelly garbage can as he carried it to the incinerator room, Stone kept returning to “the Arena.” They were sending him there? Nobody ever comes back from it, ever, Tomba had said. Was it some kind of execution method? Was he being exiled, as they’d threatened? If so, would there be any way he could escape, or would he be torn apart by the freakish scavengers? Why had they suddenly decided to do this? Was it because he couldn’t provide any other useful information to his captors, so they had no further use for him?
For the rest of his work shift, he had trouble keeping his mind on what he was doing as it refused to stop speculating about this new development. Twice, the guards zapped him with painful jolts when he worked too slowly, and by the time the shift was over and he was back in his cell with another bowl of tasteless porridge, he’d come no closer to any reasonable conclusion. When the remainder of the evening passed without incident, he began to wonder if he’d misheard the guards—whatever the Arena was, perhaps they were talking about someone else. He’d have to look around tomorrow and see if any of the usual prisoners in his work group were missing.
He lay down on his thin mattress and turned toward the wall. They did turn the overhead light off eventually, but it was never at the same time and he always found it hard to get to sleep until it was dark. Tonight, he doubted he’d sleep much even if they did turn it off.
The door clanged open, startling him out of a half-doze. “Up,” ordered a sharp voice.
“What—?” He scrambled to his feet, blinking. Was it morning already? Had he managed to sleep through the blaring alarm?
The tall, broad-shouldered woman who’d processed him the night he’d arrived stood in the doorway, looking impatient. She gestured, locking his arms to his sides. “Come on.”
Stone didn’t move. His heart pounded; was this what the guards had been talking about earlier? “Where are we going?”
“Quiet. Walk.” She used magic to nudge him along.
With no other options available, he walked. “Where are you taking me?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she directed him down several hallways and into the magical elevator that had delivered him into the bowels of Temolan. As they rode upward, the woman pulled something from her pocket. She settled a dark hood over Stone’s head.
This was new. “Don’t want me to know where I’m going?”
A painful current jolted him, and he sagged against the elevator wall. “Shut up, or you’ll have an unfortunate accident before you even get where you’re going. Nobody will care, trust me.”
So they were taking him somewhere. To this mysterious “Arena,” perhaps? He remained silent, not doubting the woman’s words. At least he wanted to see where he was to end up.
After walking for a short distance, the woman directed Stone to take a step up, then lowered him to a bench. A door slammed shut, and then a faint jerk indicated they were moving again. Another elevator? One of the floating vehicles he’d been delivered in? He couldn’t sense the woman near him, so he ventured, “Is anyone else here?”
“Yeah,” said a voice from the other side.
“I’m here,” said a third voice, female this time, to his left.
Stone braced himself for another zap from the guards for talking, but it didn’t come. Nobody else yelped, either. “Are you prisoners too?”
“I am,” said the man.
“Yes,” said the woman.
“Do you know where they’re taking us?”
“To the Arena,” the man said, bitterly.
“They didn’t tell you?” the woman asked.
“They don’t tell me much,” Stone said. “What’s the Arena?”
The two other prisoners were silent for a long time. “You don’t know?” the man finally asked.
“No. I’m—not from this area. I was arrested for…having forged work papers.”
A long sigh; Stone wasn’t sure which of the two it came from. “It means we’re dead,” the woman said.
Stone tensed. “Execution?”
“They don’t call it that,” the man said. “This way they can get away with saying we have a chance.”
“Explain,” Stone said. “I’m Stone, by the way. I assume there aren’t any guards in here with us.”
“They don’t need to be. It’s not like we’re getting out of here. I’m Geral,” the man said.
“Petra,” the woman said.
“So what’s the Arena?” Stone asked again. “Why does it mean we’re dead?”
“You really don’t know?” Petra asked.
“I haven’t been a prisoner very long.”
“It’s something they do to entertain themselves,” Geral said. “We’ve just heard rumors—it’s not official, but everybody knows about it.”
“They take some of the prisoners and make them fight,” Petra said. “They watch, and bet on the fights.”
Stone tensed. “So they’re running some kind of prisoner fight club?” He almost added, “and they’re allowed to do that?” but he didn’t. Apparently the Talented—especially the upper echelons—were allowed to do whatever the hell they wanted to do.
“Like I said, it’s not official. Nobody admits to it on record. But it’s been going on for a long time. They can only keep so many prisoners in Temolan, so they use the Arena to get rid of some when they start getting overcrowded.”
“They don’t like having too many Dim in their beautiful city.” Petra sounded every bit as bitter as Geral.
“So—how does it work?” Stone asked. “Do you know?”
“Not for sure,” Geral said. “Nobody ever comes back when they get sent to the Arena. But the rumors say that they make the prisoners keep fighting each other until they get killed. One on one. The winner goes on to the next round, and they keep doing that until only one’s left.”
A chill ran down Stone’s spine. “That’s…barbaric.”
“Yeah,” Petra said, in a that’s obvious tone.
“What happens to the one that’s left at the end?”
“Nobody knows,” Geral said. “Maybe they heal ’em up and it starts all over the next night.” He snorted. “Not that it matters to me—it won’t be me.”
“Me neither,” Petra said. “I don’t even know how to fight.”
Stone sighed. It disturbed him, how resigned these two sounded to their fate. So that was how his Talented captors planned to get rid of him, without offending whatever vestigial, husklike consciences they might have left. They wouldn’t even have the decency to give him a proper execution.
“Bloody hell…” he murmured. He was no fighter—without his magic, he probably wouldn’t last through a single bout.
“Sorry,” Petra said, and now she sounded sympathetic. “That you had to find out like this, I mean.”
“Maybe it’ll be quick, at least.” Geral said. “Sometimes it is.”
Stone was spared answering by the sound of the door opening. “Out, all of you,” a voice ordered.
“Nice knowing you,” Geral muttered.
22
They kept Stone’s black hood on until they’d herded him into another room with the locker-room reek of sweat and funk and old wood. Far away, he heard the faint sounds of what might have been cheers. He didn’t know how long they kept him waiting there, his arms locked to his sides, but it was quite some time before something whipped the hood off, revealing a rough, dimly lit room with a tile floor and scarred wooden benches lining the walls. The room had two doors, both closed, a bank of lockers, and no windows.
A man stood on the other side of the room, eyeing him with distaste. “You won’t last long,” he said. He was young, not much older than the bullies who’d attacked him when he’d first arrived in Temolan, and had the same kind of conceited, entitled expression. He had dark, shoulder-length hair and wore a version of the now-familiar high-collared long coat, this one black with blue accents. Like all the other Talented Stone had seen, his hair and clothes were spotless.
“Where am I?” Stone demanded. “What’s going on?” From outside, the cheers rose louder, then receded.
“You’re at the Arena,” the man said. “You’ll be fighting soon.”
“Fighting? With who?” They expect me to be stupid—maybe acting like it will get me some information I can use.
“Shut up. Get changed, and don’t take all day about it. Maybe if you die fast, they’ll give me somebody who might last a while next time.” He waved his hand and one of the lockers opened.
“Wait—you’re telling me I’m to fight to the death? Why? What did I do?” He looked in the locker; it contained only a pair of drab, gray athletic shorts with a green stripe down each side.
“Stop asking questions, pig,” the man growled. “Get changed, or I’ll kill you myself before you get a chance to fight.”
Stone slipped out of his tan prison uniform and donned the shorts. The man eyed his tattoo in suspicion, but then shook his head. From another locker, he pulled an armband with a couple of figures written on it—they were in a different script Stone recognized as the Talented’s, but he couldn’t read them—and used magic to attach it snugly around Stone’s upper right arm. “You won’t be much entertainment, that’s damned sure, but maybe some of the other fights will be better. Come on—you can watch the next few from the waiting area, so maybe you’ll get some idea what to expect. Through that door. Don’t embarrass me, all right?”
He gestured, and the door on the far side of the room opened. The cheering was louder now. “Go on,” he said, giving Stone a hard magical shove toward it.
Stumbling, he went through, and it slammed shut behind him. When he spun to try it, it was locked.
He stood now in a small cubicle, perhaps four feet square. The door was on the back wall; the two side ones were made of wood, high and solid, and the front wall was barred, like a cage. The floor under his bare feet was rough concrete.
Outside the cage stretched a large, circular space with a dirt floor. The walls ringing it, painted blue, rose about ten feet high; interspersed at regular intervals around them were more barred cages like the one that held Stone. He could see other shadowy figures moving behind some of the bars—other prisoners? He couldn’t see well enough to tell in the lowered lights. In the middle of the dirt area was something that looked like a large, dark stain. Blood? Again, he couldn’t be sure.
He looked up, following the hubbub of voices. As he suspected, a number of long-coated figures, both men and women, sat around up there the perimeter of the dirt arena, leaning over for better views. Most had drinks in front of them, and the ones closest to him looked carefree, smiling, chattering among themselves.
Rage and disgust filled him—clearly, they didn’t give a damn that their entertainment involved watching human beings kill each other. Again, he wondered where Harrison was, and if he had any connection to these barbaric practices.
A loud bell drove off further speculations. A moment later, bright lights switched on over the arena, illuminating the dirt floor. Now, Stone could see that the stains he’d spotted previously were blood, and some of them looked fresh. He tried to get a better look at the prisoners directly across the circle from him, but he still couldn’t make out any specific detail.
An amused, drawling voice boomed over unseen speakers—or perhaps they used magic to amplify their voices, too. “Welcome to any newcomers. We’ll be getting the next match started in just a moment. Before that, let’s meet our next two competitors, shall we?”
Two loud clangs sounded on the left side of the circle and the right, as the barred doors on two of the cubicles slid upward.
“Come on out,” the amused voice called. “Don’t be shy. Let’s have a look at you.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, as Stone gripped the bars of his cell and watched, two figures stumbled into the dirt ring. It appeared that s
omething had pushed them out: one barely got his feet under him to avoid falling, while the other went sprawling and quickly scrambled back up.
The two were both men, one tall and dark-skinned, the other shorter and pale. Both were clad only in the same drab gray shorts Stone now wore—the dark man’s had a red stripe, the pale man’s a yellow one—and both had the same cloth wraps around their upper right arms. They looked warily around and the pale one tried to dart back into his cell, but the barred doors had already clanged shut again.
“Excellent, excellent,” said the voice. “In the red-striped shorts, we have Holan. He’s been a longtime ‘guest’ in Temolan, arrested last year for disrespecting lawful authority. He’ll be fighting for Elithria tonight.” Up above, a woman stood and raised her hands, to more cheers. “I’m sure he won’t disappoint her! Isn’t that right, Holan?”
From around the arena came laughter. Holan, for his part, looked scared and miserable and didn’t acknowledge the announcer’s words.
The announcer didn’t seem to mind. “On the other side, in the yellow stripes, we have Geral. He’s a relative newcomer to our system, and he’s here because he disobeyed a direct order.”
Stone stiffened. Geral—the same man who’d been in the transport with him.
“She was dying!” Geral yelled, shaking his fist at the unseen speaker. “I was just trying to help her!”
“Look at that fire!” The announcer’s voice dripped with contemptuous amusement. “If he fights as well as he talks, we should be in for a good bout! Geral will be fighting for Donastian.”
The crowd erupted in cheers when a man stood in the stands, then quieted.
“Before we get started,” the announcer continued, “just in case some of you haven’t noticed, we have not one but two distinguished guests tonight. Everyone, please welcome Chanandra and Olystriar, from the Temolan High Council!”
The spotlight fell on two figures sitting in an elevated box. Neither rose, but both acknowledged the swelling cheers that rose from the group with languid waves.
