The Hunter on Arena

by Rose Estes

  These thoughts were never far from Braldt’s mind. He himself, while somewhat concerned about the prospect of the games, welcomed the opportunity for action and the possibility of learning the answers to the questions that troubled him most. Those questions and thoughts were always at the back of his mind, worrying away at his heart. His concern was not so much for himself but the need to know what had happened to the others in his absence.

  Randi had proved herself to be a loyal companion and her combat skills were impressive. She had also indicated in subtle ways that she would not be adverse to a closer relationship. Braldt appreciated her handsome features and her quick wit, and was attracted by her lithe, trim body, but in the end he always retreated, for she was not Keri.

  The memory of Keri filled his thoughts, waking and sleeping, and he worried about what had become of her. Did she think about him, too? Did she believe him to be dead? Would she forget him in time? These thoughts and others equally disturbing and unanswerable chased themselves round and round in his head as he lay waiting for sleep to come night after tormented night.

  Batta Flor and Beast shared his thoughts, too, as well as concern for Auslic and Cam, his jealous and ambition-torn brother. What had become of them and how had his disappearance affected their lives? He would have given anything to know. If the Masters had told the truth, victory would earn him the answer to one of his questions. Braldt was not accustomed to taking lives except to protect his own, but if deathdealing were the cost of learning what had happened to those he loved, he had no choice but to steel himself for the task.

  11

  There were not many of them, all things considered, especially when one balanced the dangers and the risks involved, as well as the overwhelming numbers opposing them. But they represented some of their best and brightest minds, and they were determined to set right the wrong that was being done. The stakes were far larger than the cost of their lives.

  To look at them was like looking into a multifaceted glass that reflected multiple images of the same object. They were identical in all but the most minor of details. All were tall, men and women alike standing a hand’s width over six feet, slender and willowy of build, with broad shoulders and narrow hips and waists. Their eyes were a bright, clear shade of cerulean blue, their cheekbones high, prominent, and slanted upward. Their hair was such a light shade of silvery blond as to nearly disappear in strong light. And while their eyes spoke of great intellect, their bodies spoke eloquently in their fragile delicacy of generation after generation of line breeding.

  “Are you sure there can be no doubt?” a woman murmured, her long fingers twisting nervously in her lap. “After all, there are so many different permutations among them, perhaps he just looks… an accident, you know….”

  “No, Lomi, there is no mistake, no accident. He is one of us,” Erte said gently.

  “But how could he have survived in such a place after all these years?” asked another woman.

  “More importantly, how could they have dared to bring him back?” stammered a third. “Can they be so reckless, so bold? Do they truly believe themselves to be above the law? Surely they realize the risk?”

  “Yes, I think they do consider themselves above the law,” the man said reflectively, pondering the woman’s questions. “They certainly do not take us seriously, we have had ample evidence of that. But what do they have at risk? They have escaped detection for so long the risk is minimal, and unless we do something to help him, he will surely die. It’s only a matter of time. No one can hold out forever in the ring. And once he is dead, they will feed his body to the beasts, and the risk, what little there was, will cease to exist.”

  “But what can we do?” asked one of the men as he fidgeted and rearranged the green gemstone on his shoulder which held his body cloth secure. “If what you say is true, this one is kin to me, the son of my sister, and I, more than any of you, have to try to save him. But we are so few; even if we were to attempt such a thing, how could we do it?

  “Just think of the danger involved, not only from those of our own kind, but the gamers. How do we know what he has become over the years? What if he does not know who or what he is? Even worse, what if he hates us, blames us for deserting him?”

  “What are you saying, Jorund? Are you saying that we should leave him where he is, let him take his chances in the ring?” challenged the first woman, her fingers twined stiffly among themselves.

  “No,” Jorund said heavily. “For the memory of my sister, if for no other reason, we must help him and pray that his heritage has sustained him on that barbaric planet. But by the stars, I pray that we are right.”

  “Pray to the stars all you wish, Jorund. Who knows, it may even help,” Erte said dryly. “But I think it will be more useful to help us think of a plan that will get the job done.”

  There was an awkward silence as the two men stared at one another, then a woman cleared her throat and spoke. “Look here, what about this tunnel here…” The tension broken, there was a sudden babble of voices as the small group gathered around the woman and offered up their thoughts for consideration.

  This day was different. They could feel it in the air, a sort of nervous tension that tingled along the skin and bristled hair in anticipation. Nothing was said, no sign was given, but everyone could feel it.

  Braldt sipped his hot brew, forcing himself to swallow the steaming liquid. He knew he would need the energy for whatever was to come, but it was impossible to eat. The few bites he swallowed lay like lumps of stone in his belly and he knew that he would be sick if he forced himself further. He shoved his plate away and looked out across the vast hall, already half obscured by a miasma of steam from the kitchen fires and the rising stink of unwashed bodies.

  The others shared his apprehension. All around him was the flash of frightened eyes and the babble of tongues loosened by terror. He could smell the fear on them, a brassy, metallic, sour stink. There had been no word, and yet they knew.

  The guards broke the fearful reverie, moving in from the edges of the room and herding them out into the arena even though few among them had finished their meals. Utensils, half-filled bowls, and cups still trailing their pennants of steam, remained at their places, and Braldt could not help but wonder as he was driven toward the arena at spear point, how many of those cups would be lifted at the end of the day.

  The suns had just crested the edge of the red stone walls and were already beating down full force on the sands of the arena though the last of the night’s chill still hovered above the ground.

  Without words, the guards divided up the groups and passed out their weapons. The guards seemed especially watchful and their numbers were nearly doubled, standing in pairs around the edge of the arena with swords drawn and shields raised.

  When the last of the groups were armed, a trio of men appeared, framed by the narrow arches of the stone tiers. They were flanked by six hard ones, but it was the men themselves who earned Braldt’s attention. He stared at them in disbelief. Despite the distance separating them, he could see quite clearly that they were so like him as to be mirror images! They were as tall as he, and as blond, and their bone structure was the same. He was not able to see their eyes but somehow knew without a doubt that the eyes would be the same bright shade of blue. Each of the men wore a white drape of cloth about their bodies, fastened at the shoulder with a silver ring. The rings flashed shards of green and red and blue in the sunlight, and unconsciously, Braldt’s fingers rose to his own shoulder to stroke the ring that was no longer there. He had once owned such a ring! Who could these people be and what did it all mean?

  Confusion tore at his mind, conflicting thoughts pinwheeling through his head as he stared at the men who were most probably his enemy yet looked enough like him to be brother or father or both. Then a voice intruded on his thoughts, speaking in imperious tones through the silver disc fastened to his skull. “Contestants, gladiators, the games are about to commence. The moment you have waited
for will soon be here. We have followed your progress with interest and feel certain that the contests will be worthy of our efforts.”

  Those standing in the arena began to stir restlessly, eyes darting nervously in all directions. “Worth whose effort?” spat one of the reptilian men, his comment echoed by a score of his companions.

  The regal voice continued on as though unaware of the murmur of discontent rising from the sands below. “As promised, at the close of each contest, the victors will be rewarded by the answer of a question. But before the games begin, there is one further bit of business that must be completed. As you will notice, each team consists of five members. Unfortunately, that is one too many. Your first task will be the elimination of one member of your team. That choice we leave up to you….”

  A loud outcry rose from the armed gathering. Teammates stared at each other in distrust and dismay while others brandished their weapons at the speakers.

  “You will choose the member to be eliminated, or we will make the choice for you,” the speaker said, his voice growing harsh and cold. “There is nothing to be gained by procrastinating, for the outcome will be the same.”

  Beside Braldt, a small, furred creature with four arms whirled on its companions, those it had eaten, slept, and trained beside, and stabbed a smooth-skinned hunchback between the eyes, pinning him to the ground and falling on his chest with his knees until the flailing limbs lay limp and unmoving in the red dust. The furred beast clung to his weapon and glared defiantly, baring his fangs in a growl at those who stared at him in shocked disbelief.

  All around him there were mutters and the ring of steel being drawn from scabbards and sheathes. On the perimeter of the arena, the guards moved closer, closing the circle, weapons at the ready for the first sign of rebellion.

  “This ain’t right,” complained a voice. “They can’t make us kill each other, can they? I mean, it ain’t like we’re all cold blooded…” There was a sudden shriek and the voice ended abruptly.

  Randi moved to Braldt’s side, pressing her lithe form against him, drawing the object that she had named a laser gun and thumbing it back to the stun setting. Allo and Septua drew in as well until the four of them stood back to back in a tight formation bristling with weaponry in all directions. Marin was the odd man out.

  Still, Braldt had no wish to fight the black man, or see him die for that matter. If they must fight in competition, the black man would be a valuable fighter—he was strong and skillful and crafty in the art of deception. To sacrifice any of his companions was unthinkable.

  “Marin, we do not have to do as they say,” said Braldt, lowering his sword and speaking earnestly to the black man who had gone into a crouch, his trident extended before him, nearly touching Braldt’s chest. “Let us put our differences aside and fight together; they cannot make us fight each other if we refuse.”

  The sounds of battle were all around him, steel ringing against steel, the thunder of small explosions, the screams of men dying. Marin’s eyes were shuttered against the rising suns. His blue-black lips were drawn back in a mirthless grin that exposed his filed, pointed teeth. He was crouching low, his trident jabbing forward like the tongue of a striking snake. In his other hand the net swirled slowly, the weights sighing through the air with a low moan. If he heard Braldt’s words, he gave no sign, but advanced steadily, his small, dark eyes never leaving Braldt’s face.

  “He means to fight,” Randi said tensely. “I’ll throw a jolt into him, knock him out until we can talk some reason into him.” She pointed the stubby weapon at Marin who did not even spare her a glance, but Allo pressed his huge, shaggy hand down upon her wrist gently.

  “No,” he said softly. “If it does not happen now, it will merely postpone the inevitable. Marin is determined to fight Braldt. He has been seeking such a confrontation. We cannot stop it.”

  “But what if he wins,” Randi said in dismay, turning to look at the large, shaggy creature. “Would you follow him? Look at his eyes—he’s crazy!”

  “When we entered this place we gave up the right to reason. Such standards do not exist here,” Allo said sadly. “At least not for us.”

  Septua joined the argument, his shrill, high-pitched voice adding to the confusion, but Braldt had ceased to listen to their words, realizing that the time for words had long since passed, if it had ever existed. He had met such men as Marin before. Confrontation, action, death—these were what mattered. Logic, reason, and words stood for nothing. The mistake was in thinking that such men were stupid. It was a mistake that could be fatal. While the heads of such men were empty of higher thoughts, they were filled with strategy and technique and their bodies were often trained to perfection. They made the best of allies and the very worst of enemies.

  Braldt drew his sword and fell into the same shuffling sidestep employed by Marin. Matching each other stride for stride, they began to circle. Randi and Septua fell silent and pressed up against Allo’s shaggy hide, watching the duel with fearful eyes.

  The arena echoed with the sounds of combat, angry grunts, choked exhalations of effort, shrieks of agony, and the sobs of frightened men about to die. Braldt closed his mind to the noise and movement around him, focusing only on Marin’s shiny body, studying the way he moved, taking note of the manner in which he held his trident, the rise and fall of the weighted net.

  The weights increased the measure of their speed, whup, whup, whup, as they swiftly sped through the air, describing an even larger circle. Marin’s eyes squinted more tightly and Braldt saw his fingers tighten on the haft of the trident. Stepping forward, Braldt broke through the circle and stepped directly inside Marin’s guard, too close for him to use either trident or net and unable to reach for the short dagger in his belt without dropping one of his weapons. Without pausing, seeing Marin’s eyes open wide with shock, seeing the small mind trying to decide what to do, Braldt reversed his sword and struck with all the power he possessed, striking Marin square between the eyes with the heavy, sheathed butt. Marin stopped cold as though he had run into a solid wall of stone. His tongue came out of his mouth and flicked back and forth as he tried to speak, but no words emerged. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, revealing hideous, gray-black corneas mottled with flecks of crimson, and he fell back without a sound, landing flat on the ground where he lay without moving.

  “Is he dead?” cried Randi.

  “No, just stunned, I think, although his brains, what few there are, will be addled for some time to come,” Braldt said with satisfaction as he sheathed his sword and knelt at Marin’s side, gathering up the big man’s weapons just to be safe.

  Before he could rise, two of the imperious blond men appeared beside him, although he had not sensed their advance. Four hard ones, armed with slender, metal staffs, stood behind them, flanking them on either side, their smooth faces impassive, devoid of any expression.

  One of the men poked Marin with his toe. The big man did not move. The man raised his eyes to Braldt’s— incredible eyes, eyes the color of the bluest of skies, eyes without guile or pretense or evil, the eyes of a child.

  “Kill him,” the man said gently, his eyes locked on Braldt’s.

  Braldt stared at him in shock, wondering if he had heard correctly. It seemed impossible that such words could have come from the man’s lips. It was an abomination, an obscenity!

  “Kill him,” the man repeated, speaking slowly and clearly as though Braldt were incapable of understanding the words. Braldt shook his head dumbly.

  The man sighed and shook his head sadly, then nodded to one of the hard ones. The metallic man raised his rod and positioned it delicately in the center of Marin’s flanged ear. Braldt watched in disbelief, waiting for the man to counteract his command. But he did not speak; his eyes resting on Braldt, a small smile played at the corner of his mouth.

  “No,” cried Braldt as he flung himself at the hard one, striking it full in the chest as he tried to wrestle the rod from his grasp. The hard one swayed slight
ly as it balanced on its single wheel, but its grip on the metal rod never loosened, and even as Braldt seized it in his hands and pulled with all his strength, the metallic man drove the rod into the fallen team member’s skull. The black man jerked spasmodically, his eyes came into focus, filled with agony and rage and fixed on the horrorstruck Braldt who clung helplessly to the cause of the man’s death.

  Black blood, thick and viscous, spewed from Marin’s ear, drenching Braldt’s feet and spattering his legs hotly as intelligence and life faded from the hate-filled eyes. Marin’s arms and legs continued to thrash, long minutes after his brain had died, but the body remained firmly pinned to the ground by the thin, metal shaft.

  Randi had uttered a shrill cry when the hard one drove the rod into Marin, a cry that had ended abruptly in a choked sob; Septua had doubled over and emptied his stomach of its content. Only Allo had remained silent, enfolding his two companions against his shaggy body, watching with saddened eyes, perhaps realizing more fully than any of the others the true nature of their captors and accepting with his stoical nature the futility of resistance.

  But stoicism had no place in Braldt’s vocabulary and he would have thrown himself at the blond man who had given the death order had Allo not realized his intent and wrapped his long arms around Braldt, firmly pinning his arms to his sides.

  The hard one reacted swiftly, pulling the rod out of Marin’s limp body and bracing the end, dripping with inky ichor, in the center of Braldt’s chest. There was no doubt at all that it would have shoved the staff into Braldt with as little hesitation as it had used to dispatch Marin. All it lacked was the order to do so.

  The blond man studied Braldt, the smile never leaving his lips. He turned to his companion who had until this moment remained silent.

  “What think you, Jorund, will this one be more trouble than he’s worth? Perhaps we would be wise to rid ourselves of him now.”