The Hunter on Arena

by Rose Estes

  “Calm yourself, my friend. The years have not been entirely in their favor, we have had our victories too. Kiefer’s way has not been entirely free of strife. Jocobe and Mirim will be proud to learn what we have accomplished. Nor are we alone or powerless in the Council these days. There are many who side with us and many more who would do so if only they dared. The day is fast approaching when we will be strong enough to challenge Kiefer openly rather than work from behind the scenes.”

  “We cannot let them have Jocobe,” Brit said resolutely. “Somehow we must rescue him. He is not a young man. He would not survive the arena. Somehow we must save him.”

  Erte opened his mouth to speak, to remind his friend of the difficulty and danger of such a task, but seeing the steely resolve in Brit’s cold, blue eyes, he could only nod in silent agreement. She was right. Somehow it would be done.

  9

  Batta Flor wakened with a bad taste in his mouth. His tongue was coated with foulness as though a merebear had hibernated there. He opened his eyes slowly and groaned as a bright, red light struck him, driving shards of crimson sunlight into his brain. A shadow fell over him, dulling the light somewhat, and sounds echoed inside his head. He lifted a large hand and shaded his eyes, blinking against the light, trying to bring the figure into focus. Distantly, he took note of the absence of strength in his body, but somehow it failed to concern him. He squinted upward.

  “Batta Flor, don’t you recognize me?” The voice spoke, the lips opening and shutting in a comic manner, and then slowly, the words themselves filtered through and took shape inside his mind. He grunted and lay back, closing his eyes with a sigh. His hand thumped against the ground, too heavy to hold upright.

  Small hands seized his shoulders and shook him; a flea trying to move a boulder. He ignored them and began to drift back into the comfortable, muzzy darkness that had held him for so long.

  But the voice turned insistent, and the hands on his body refused to relinquish him to sleep, tugging and pulling, yanking him this way and that, forcing his head upright, even prying his eyelids open and yelling into his face. What did they want of him? Why would they not let him be?

  The thing would not go away and now it was joined by a second creature who yapped and yipped in a most annoying manner. The sounds were muted, muffled as though they came from far away, but it was hard to ignore them, knowing they were there. The smaller creature seized hold of his hand, sinking its double rows of spiked teeth into his tough, dark skin and began to pull. Batta Flor could see the dots of blood welling between the beast’s teeth. He could see the bright, red trickles of blood as they matted his thick fur and dripped onto the ground. Some part of his mind that was still functioning recoiled in anticipation of the pain, but there was none. He felt no pain. He felt nothing.

  The… girl, yes, that was what she was! His mind wrapped itself sluggishly around the word. The girl stared in horror at the blood and tried to pull the beast away without success. Tears began to course down her cheeks.

  It was this that stirred him at last, the depth of the girl’s distress. Somehow he had to let her know that it didn’t matter, that he was not hurt.

  He sat up slowly, and closing his fingers around the muzzle of the yapping creature, brought pressure to bear at the base of its jaws. A startled look filled the beast’s eyes and its jaws popped open. Batta Flor extracted his hand and examined it casually, inspecting the damage calmly as though it had happened to someone else. Blood still dripped from the neat row of punctures, but his skin was quite thick, and as there was no pain, he felt no concern. He shrugged and tried to smile to reassure the girl, but she did not appear to be comforted at all. Instead, she cried all the harder and buried her face against his chest.

  Batta Flor looked down at her, taking note of her neaving shoulders, feeling the warm moisture of her tears as they seeped through his fur and onto his chest. He knew that he should do something, the same portion of his brain that told him about the pain urged him to respond to the girl’s distress. But he could not think of what it was that he was supposed to do and so he did nothing, merely let her cry until there were no tears left.

  After a time, the girl sat down next to him. She tucked her hand into his and rested her head on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Batta Flor. We’ll get out of here, wherever here is. I’ll think of a way somehow and I’ll get us home, the three of us. And I’ll get your ear fixed, too. That must be what’s wrong—why you’re acting like this and why you don’t feel the pain. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of us.”

  Batta Flor heard the words. They buzzed around inside his head like flocks of stingers. Some of them bore meaning, others were merely sounds. Worry? What was there to worry about? The girl droned on, speaking to him earnestly, reassuringly, patting his arm from time to time and looking up at him with worried eyes. After a while, Batta Flor lost interest in the girl and her words and stared ahead with empty eyes, thinking and feeling nothing.

  10

  Sweat poured off Braldt’s body as the heat from the crimson suns beat down on his head and shoulders. The unfamiliar weight of the metal helm covering his head distracted him, as did the strip of metal that extended across the bridge of his brows and down the length of his nose, but he did his best to ignore it, grateful for what little protection it offered. Never taking his eyes from his opponent, he circled warily, feeling the red stone and sand crunch beneath his sturdy, leather sandals, shaking the salty, stinging sweat from his eyes. The metal-sheathed butt of the spear struck out suddenly and whistled past his head, missing him by a narrow margin. Marin chuckled mirthlessly, the suns glinting off his pointy, black teeth in a rainbow of light.

  Braldt was accustomed to being the best in everything, especially in combat. Seldom if ever had any of his comrades been his equal in strength or skill. Others had surpassed him when he was younger, but as he grew to adulthood, none could match his abilities. He had always been the best.

  Here, everything was different. In the days that had passed since their capture he had seen many who were as good as he, and not a few who were better. And those were merely the human types. Of those who were of unfamiliar races, there was no counting the variety of peculiar and very deadly skills they employed. There was a large, amorphous thing whose shape changed from moment to moment, flowing effortlessly from place to place as easily as the wind blows, who had no real skills as such, but possessed the ability to expel a cloud of noxious gas that killed anything unfortunate enough to pass within its range. Other creatures had multiple limbs capable of wielding a multitude of weapons.

  The routine was always the same. They were led out of their dark, odiferous cell early each morning, long before the dual orbs crested the edge of the dark horizon, and led shivering to a cavernous hall where they filed past ranks of steaming kettles. These enormous cauldrons were overseen by a bent, reptilian crone most certainly blood-related to the water carrier of the dungeons. Here they received a thick, gluey dollop of cereal and a mug of hot brew, unidentifiable in content but welcome for the jolt of stimulus it imparted. The steaming cereal did more than fill the emptiness in their bellies, for it sustained them throughout the long and arduous morning that followed.

  After the brief meal, they were given their weapons under the watchful eyes of the guards and led into the arena where they sparred and honed their skills against one another until the suns hung directly overhead and even their keepers showed the effects of the heat.

  Marching back into the welcome shadows of the arches at the edge of the arena whose darkness imparted little or no relief from the rising temperatures, they collapsed on the hot sand and rested until the suns made their slow descent from the burnished sky. The reptilian water carrier, still muttering to itself, trundled up and down the line of sprawled, exhausted bodies, doling out lukewarm tots of moisture that did little to replace the fluid they had expended.

  A second lizard followed in its wake, silent and uncommunicative, passing out fist-sized lumps that co
ntained grains, nuts, shreds of meat, and strange, red pebbles of tart sweetness, perhaps a fruit, all bound together by a suety, clotted, white fat that left a disagreeable coating on the tongue and roof of one’s mouth. But Braldt ate it and urged his companions to do the same, for he recognized that disgusting as it was, the lumps had been formulated to provide them with everything their bodies needed to remain in good condition.

  It was becoming increasingly obvious to all of them that despite their circumstances, their captors had no particular wish to harm them or see them dead. At least not immediately. They were treated as though they were valuable herd animals, their physical needs scrupulously attended. Injuries were seen to immediately and their condition and ability assessed constantly by the prowling guards. Those who were seriously injured and those in the cells who failed to prove useful at the various menial chores, however, disappeared and were never seen again.

  After the suns edged past the top of the arena, they were herded back into the amphitheater where they continued their competitions until nightfall.

  Occasionally, early on, there were those who could not or would not fight. Clusters of guards gathered around these individuals and they were urged by word and metal-toed boot to resume their activities. A few did not need the warning. The first time this occurred, a pale, blond youth from Randi’s home planet lay mewling on the ground, arms covering his head, weeping hysterically, refusing to move.

  A dark figure emerged from the arches and came speeding across the loose, shifting sands. Braldt started, a surge of anger coursing through his body as he stared at the new arrival. It was a hard one, its legs replaced by a single, broad wheel centered below its waist. It conferred with the guards who maintained a careful, respectful distance, their eyes averted.

  The guards spoke urgently to the youngster, prodding him with their feet and the butts of their spears, but the youth was too far gone to respond. And then, in obvious response to an order from the hard one, despite the crowd of onlookers, or perhaps because of them, one of the guards lifted his spear and plunged it into the body of the helpless boy, impaling him. Dark, red blood gushed out of the thrashing body and poured onto the coarse, red earth.

  When the last of the boy’s life had ebbed away, the guard withdrew his spear. The body was left to lie where it had fallen, and numb with shock and anger, the prisoners were forced to resume their battles, the pitiful corpse lying untended like a bit of cast-off garbage. Still, there were those who tried to defy the guards, but any and all resistance was dealt with swiftly and harshly. Those who remained did as they were bid, following the brusque regime, rising each morning for the brief bit of sustenance, fighting all day in the hot sun, then collapsing in the cold, damp dungeons, too exhausted, both mentally and physically, to even contemplate escape. For a few moments before sleep came, they may have pondered the reason for this new existence, wondered what the future might hold. But all too soon, they drifted into silent sleep, too exhausted to pursue their thoughts.

  All except Braldt. No less exhausted than his companions, his mind refused to cease its constant ramblings. Who were these Masters and why had they been brought here to such a place? Was it possible that they had been assembled for no other reason than to fight for the amusement of these so-called Masters? The idea was preposterous, but by their own statement, it appeared to be so. They were being groomed for the arena—that much was obvious—and only the best would survive. If and when they won a match, they would be rewarded by the answer to a question, and by the gift of life itself.

  But how long could any one of them hope to survive? Although the training was rigorous, the guards harder taskmasters than any Braldt had known before, his body was responding well. True, he was bruised and stiff and sported half a dozen minor wounds, but he had also attained a new level of proficiency and could already feel his muscles working past their complaints, sliding more smoothly, becoming more powerful.

  There was joy in the heft of the new weapons, the blade better balanced, more keen than any he had known before. The guards did double duty as trainers and he was learning moves and ploys that had been unknown at home. Much of what he learned was unconventional and even underhanded, but if it meant his survival, honor was a luxury he could not afford.

  Whenever he was able, he watched his companions, Septua, Marin, and Randi, as well as the others, all of whom had to be considered as opponents.

  Marin constituted the greatest single threat, for even though they had been grouped together and were considered a team, he entertained no such thoughts, and for some unknown reason, singled Braldt out as his personal enemy and sought to fight him whenever there was an opportunity. Normally, they were paired with others not of their team for their daily matches. But Marin often overrode that arrangement, pushing aside Braldt’s assigned opponent and substituting himself in the other’s stead. At first, the guards had sought to intercede, but they were a cruel and indifferent bunch and were quick to see the humor in pitting the two teammates against one another.

  Marin fought with spear, trident, and weighted net, as well as a dagger in his belt. Braldt himself fought with the more conventional weapons he had been accustomed to, a double-edged long sword, a more utilitarian short sword for close work, and a shield.

  Fighting Marin was tricky business, for both of them depended on keeping their opponent at bay with sword, spear, and trident while seizing their moment to dart inside the other’s guard and put an end to the battle with the smaller weapons. But Marin and Braldt were evenly matched in ability, neither of them being obviously superior. Marin was larger and heavier than Braldt, and had he been able to pin him, the contest would have been over. But his bulk also worked against him, for Braldt was far more agile and moved more swiftly, avoiding the larger man’s moves with relative ease.

  Nor did the deadly game cease when the day’s activities drew to an end, for Marin fixed on Braldt with singleminded determination that did not waver. He wanted to kill him. While not unwilling to fight the black man, Braldt would have preferred to do so with a weapon in his hand, and as time passed, he found it wearying to watch his back against the possibility of an attack.

  Randi and Septua had allied themselves with him, disliking and distrusting Marin, perhaps realizing that if Braldt were to die, they themselves would become his next victims. Their decision quickly earned them Marin’s scorn and hatred. They kept as much space between themselves and the black man as possible, sleeping on the far side of the dungeon cell and allowing others to come between them in the food and water lines. There were no weapons outside the ring, but Marin needed no weapons. He could snap their necks between his fingers as easily as one broke a dry stick—if he could get close enough. They took care to see that he did not.

  One morning, Braldt and his allies were overjoyed to see that Allo had been returned to the cell, his wounds healed. They greeted him gladly, for all had feared that the gentle Allo had perished. The other inhabitants of the cell, those who had caused his injuries, ignored him, less than happy at his presence, for he represented one more mouth to compete for the water and one more empty belly to fill.

  While the morning meal was closely observed and fairly apportioned, at least for those who were being readied for the ring, the evening meal was another matter. The reptilian crone delivered the kettles to the guards and its dispensation was left to them; the guards missed no opportunity to bully or humiliate those in their charge. On some nights, prisoners were paired against one another, both portions of food the incentive for the victor. If both refused to fight, neither was fed. At other times, the entire cell’s worth of food was dumped onto the filthy floor and the guards stood back, safe behind the bars, laughing at the melee that followed.

  Sickened at first by the indignity and not wishing to provide the guards with entertainment, Braldt had refused to fight, refused to become a part of the snarling mass that clawed and fought for a handful of food. But the pains in his belly, and more importantly, the resulting w
eakness in his limbs, soon convinced him that dignity would have to join honor; neither were affordable under the present circumstances.

  For seven days they toiled in the arena and on the eighth day they rested, confined to their cells for the entire day and night. But even though they welcomed the respite, there was little or no rest, for on that eighth day the games were held.

  Even though they themselves were far below ground and a fair distance from the gaming area, they had no difficulty hearing the musical fanfare that preceded each match or the roars and screams of the crowd. And even more ominously, the hideous shrieks and sudden silences.

  There was little talk on the eighth day, the captives silent, wrapped in their own unhappy thoughts. Nor did they respond to the guards’ cruel banter and had little appetite for their evening rations.

  As game day drew to an end, the crimson light streaming through the high windows staining them all the color of fresh blood, a single, drawn-out death cry pierced the air and hung there until it was suddenly choked off, all the more horrifying for its abrupt end. A heavy silence fell upon the dungeon and the captives eyed each other nervously. Their silence was broken by one of the guards, a one-eyed monster noted for his penchant for cruelty. He raised his scarred face to the bloody light as though savoring the echoes of that terrible cry, then looked at them with his single, glittering eye.

  “Best start saying your prayers. It’s your turn next.”

  His words brought instant consternation to the inhabitants of the cell. Some spoke bravely, boldly issuing challenges and admonishing their unknown competitors to bolster their own courage. A few wept, but most held their tongues, retreating into their thoughts, pondering the fragility of their lives and perhaps thinking of those they had left behind.