by Erin M. Leaf
“The gladiator games are the highlight of the people’s weekend,” the trainer said loudly, addressing them all. “And they are the only things to matter in your life from now on, until you either succumb to the wounds you’ll receive inside the arena or if you’re lucky enough to survive the eight levels of Kappuah and find freedom.”
He stopped in front of the youngest of Ravage’s men, a mere pup at only fourteen years. He’d been at the adult’s camp during the mating celebration since he was too young to participate. Now he stood in this line, trying to appear older than his years.
The trainer laughed mockingly. “What I see before me are ones too wet behind the ears to be worthy of the name gladiator.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I have no wish to waste time training those who’ll piss themselves before succumbing to the blade.”
Ravage felt the sting of the insult down to his soul, and apparently so did his men. Fray growled and took a step forward, his intent to attack clear.
“No,” Ravage whispered.
Fray frowned at him but obeyed. Ravage looked toward the trainer, who watched him speculatively, a small smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Ravage couldn’t help but think he’d somehow played right into the trainer’s hands.
“You will call me Magister,” the trainer said. “I will train you. Push you. Judge you. And maybe, you will survive long enough to see your next birthday.”
Magister clapped his hands once and a dozen men walked out of the ludus housing. They were large men, muscular. Dressed for fighting. Each man had anger and determination gleaming in their eyes. They were all from different worlds, some species Ravage recognized, but most he did not. Not that he cared. The Kappuah assholes did not know the true nature of the Lycanis warriors, or if they did, chalked it up to nothing but legend.
“These are the fighters you’ll face upon the end of training.” The Magister told all of them, but his gaze stayed on Ravage. “You’ll have one week to prepare for their blades.”
“They look like children,” one of the gladiators said mockingly. The others laughed at the Lycanis warriors.
Ravage looked forward to showing them some myths were based in truth.
* * * *
The days were endless, training from sun up to sun down. Under the hot, baking sun, the Magister put fake swords and shields in their hands since all technology was banned in the arena. It would be too easy a kill if weapons like blasters were allowed. Men had to fight using only their hands, or with ancient weapons like swords and axes. Anything else was illegal, and if caught with anything other than the most basic of implements, punishment was death.
Ravage had trained to fight as a wolf. Using something other than his claws was proving to be a challenge. Even with wooden swords, the bruises were numerous and deep. He learned swiftly when to duck and how to take a hit. He and his men didn’t train with those that they were to fight, although they were in the same training field. Instead, they trained alongside others that had been recently stolen as well, taken from their homes in the same manner as he and his men. Ravage saw the anger burning in their gazes and wondered if there would be a chance to use the hatred they felt.
“Ravage!” the Magister called out, bringing a halt to the training.
Ravage stood up from his crouching position, waiting to hear what the man wanted. The magister walked between him and the man he’d been sparring with and looked him over from head to toe.
“You have some training,” the Magister said. “I see it in your stance. But you are undisciplined. You move too fast, intent for the kill, when sometimes it’s prudent to bide your time.”
Ravage lifted his chin. He was the fiercest warrior to his men. What need did he have for such things like waiting?
“Fray!” the Magister called out. “Come here.”
Ravage’s second in command walked over to him. He glanced at Ravage warily.
“You two shall fight,” the Magister said. “Watch your timing. Learn when and where you hesitate to thrust the sword. Begin.”
He stepped back. Ravage eyed Fray. They’d never fought each other simply because Lycanis men knew their place within the structured order of their society. It was a sense they’d been born with. Ravage knew he was Alpha, just as Fray knew he was beta.
Now, they were forced to fight, even if it was only for practice. The two men stared at each other, nodded, and then practiced sparring. They moved easy at first, light and quick, but eventually moving into a more complex rhythm.
Ravage’s movements were precise, perfectly positioned, the footwork sure and strong. He kept his eyes trained on Fray and seemed to anticipate each thrust or jab with a unique movement of his own. As muscular as he was, it was not a hindrance. Both welded their weapons with grace and it was clear he was not using the opportunity to try to beat Ravage at any type of showmanship.
“Enough!” the Magister snapped. “This is not what I asked for!”
He marched over and yanked their wooden swords away. He threw them to the ground and then looked over at the gladiators who trained on the opposite side of the small arena.
“Slayer!” The gladiator in question stopped his training and bowed to him. “Over here. Show this Lycan Alpha what timing is all about.”
Ravage didn’t know what species Slayer was, but the man was big and a few inches taller. A tinge of red ran over his shoulder blades and down his arms, giving him a sinister appearance. They were handed swords made of metal and Ravage looked at it grimly. As the fight began, it was immediately clear to Ravage that the dance was more than just training. The sparring match was over. Slayer’s blade came down a little more forcibly little by little until suddenly the stakes had turned and they fought a real battle with a real expected outcome.
Muscles tensed as Ravage thrust and ducked, jabbed and swiped. He was after vital areas and was doing a damn fine job repelling Slayer’s swords, even though the other man was clearly the better swordsman. He kept retreating to the edge of the circle, driven back by Ravage’s push. Ravage knew he had the match.
Suddenly Slayer bent and attacked with a sidekick that caught Ravage in the stomach. He expelled a lungful of breath and buckled slightly, leaving himself open to let Slayer swing around with another kick and knock the blade out of his hand. The metal blade caught under his chin, halting Ravage.
“Do you see now the advantage to waiting for the right time to strike?” the Magister asked.
Ravage didn’t say a word. He refused to take his gaze off the man holding the sword at his throat. But he’d definitely learned his lesson well.
“Enough, Slayer,” the Magister said, and the gladiator immediately backed away.
Ravage stood up and faced the trainer.
“It’s a concept you’d best learn in two days.” The Magister turned away, leaving Ravage staring after him as the final pieces to his plan fell into place.
Chapter Six
Ravage led his men through the underground maze of the arena, following after Felix. Guards surrounded them, training their blasters directly at their heads. Even if he did try a bold attack move, he’d be dead in seconds. He could fight several men at once, but he couldn’t outrun an energy bolt.
Ravage still tried to figure out how he was going to get his people home. If it was anyone else but the armada of Sennex Prime who had taken them, his military force would have already blasted the fucking assholes from space. But without their support, he would have to be the one to rescue his men.
The earlier games had already commenced and the aftermath lay splattered all over the ground. There were pools of red since most species in the near-by galaxies had iron based blood, but there were splotches of other colors mixed in the dirt. The bodies had been disposed of, and Ravage’s fury burned through his soul. He wanted to kill them all, slit all their throats so they knew what it was like to be a helpless victim.
Felix turned to smile at him. “I expect a glorious battle,” he said coldly. “Not only is this even
t sold out, I was able to obtain exclusive televised rights. You would make a valuable market strategist if you’re interested in a position.”
“When I get finished with this bloody spectacle, I’m going to rip your fucking head off,” Ravage vowed.
The haughty veneer slipped off Felix’s face. The man turned and nodded curtly to the guards, who opened the massive gates. The roar of the crowd was deafening. The so-called games had been going on all day, with different ludi presenting the new arrivals. But now it was time for the grand finale. Ravage was pushed forward. There was no way to escape from what was about to happen, so he threw his shoulders back and walked boldly into the spotlight. Just inside the arena, swords and shields waited for them, and Ravage grabbed one of each.
Felix’s twelve best gladiators watched them approach. They were dressed in black leather, big men staring at them with resignation. These men wanted to win because they were close to being sent to Sennex Prime to fight for their freedom.
“There is no need for us to kill each other,” Ravage called out to Slayer. He pointed to the platform where all the lanistas of the games had gathered to watch. “They are the ones who took us from our homes. Who put us in this arena. Who expect us to tear each other apart for their entertainment.”
Slayer grinned at him. “We are here because we want to be here, Lycan. We are fighters who want nothing more than the glory of the arena. Our goal has always been Sennex Prime.”
“You willingly fight for them?” Fray asked in disbelief.
“We don’t fight for them,” Slayer said. “We fight for the money.”
Ravage took a deep breath and cleared his mind. The blood of his ancestors rushed through him, bringing forth his wolf. The animal stalked under his skin, waiting to burst forth. Wanting the fight. Needing to taste the defeat of their enemy. Knowing the gladiators were out for nothing but the sport of the kill, Ravage didn’t have to hold back.
All twenty-four men glanced at the podium and waited for the signal to begin. Felix Crispus stood on the dais and raised his arms. It only took a few moments for the audience to grow silent.
“Let the games begin!”
The fight started off with a battle cry. Ravage held up his hand, holding his men back, as he watched the twelve gladiators run toward them.
“Wait until I change,” he ordered, and his men nodded.
Ravage rushed forward and met Slayer with a roar of his own, dimly aware of the others clashing together. Yes, only he and Fray had proper training, but Lycans were born fighters. The clang of metal against metal and the sound of fists landing on skin were the only things that penetrated through the haze of combat.
Ravage spun and his shield found Slayer’s jaw. The gladiator fell back without a sound. Though he was dazed, he was not out for the count as he twitched on the ground and made grunting efforts to rise. Ravage waited, his sword primed and ready in his hands.
The big brute got to his feet, shook his head to clear it, and faced Ravage with a sneer. He lunged, as did Ravage, and their blades rang out with fury. The gladiator was quick, he was good, but he tired easily under each thrust, block, and parry. Ravage quickly gained the advantage, pressing the gladiator back, again and again with a jab and swipe, until Slayer made a mistake with his footing. His belly connected with Ravage’s blade, and he toppled soundlessly to the ground. Ravage let the body fall and then yanked the sword from the flesh, hearing the skin pop around the metal. As the blade withdrew, blood bubbled over and ran in a crimson tide, blending with the blood of previous victims.
Then Ravage let out a primal scream as he stood over his kill, so loud and savage it stopped the fighting. He dropped his sword and shield, and let the wolf out. His bones snapped and shifted, elongating his limbs until he stood seven feet tall, on hind legs that had claws gripping the bloody ground.
He wasn’t the same type of wolf from his Earthling ancestors, the kind that walked on four legs and could only follow the call of the moon. No, his people had evolved. Adapted. They now walked upright, a light dusting of fur coating their bodies. Their snouts had razor-sharp teeth strong enough to snap bones. He howled and received eleven answering calls as his men changed into their wolfen nature.
The remaining gladiators backed away, eyes wide in fright and disbelief. He had known all about waiting for the right time to attack, and now, it was upon them. Ravage pointed after the gladiators and his pack charged forth. Terrified, the gladiators turned and scrambled away, trying desperately to escape the slaughter. It was no use. Even as some stood their ground to put up a token measure of resistance, the wolves were too fierce, consumed with revenge. In minutes, the twelve men who had stood as unbeatable gladiators only a few minutes earlier lay dead upon the sand. Only then did Ravage realize the spectators screamed and scrambled to get out of the arena seating.
Ravage growled loudly once again and turned his attention to the dais, his gaze landing on the terrified face of Felix Crispus. He took off running at superhuman speed and a moment later leaped high in the air to land on the platform with a heavy thud. People screamed, and in a blind rush of panic tried to push others aside to save their own lives. Guards fired, but his reflexes were fast, and in moments all the guards lay in bloody heaps. Ravage couldn’t care less about them. His attention was focused solely on Felix and Aleirah, who was held tightly in his grip.
“Let me go!” Felix shouted.
Aleirah’s gaze met Ravage’s, and he gave a barely perceptible nod. Faster than the average eyes could see, Aleirah let her claws come out, and she swiped at Felix’s hand which held the remote control. He let out a strangled cry as the skin peeled away. Muscle, tendons, and ligaments were ripped to shreds. Blood splattered and dyed the white walls a nice shade of pink. He dropped the remote, and before anyone could react, Aleirah brought her foot up and smashed the box. Immediately, the metal collar snapped open and fell to the ground with a slight clang.
“No!” Felix cried. He cradled his damaged arm and scooted back until he bumped into one of the dead guards. Scrambling fast, he scooped up a blaster and held it at Aleirah. “I’ll shoot her!”
Ravage reined in his wolf, turning back only enough to communicate. “Let my mate go.”
“I’ll … I’ll let all of you go,” Felix whispered, looking at the twelve vicious beasts who had joined their Alpha. “I-I can even have a ship waiting at your disposal. Take her and your men and leave Kappuah. Just don’t … don’t k-kill me.”
Ravage stared at the pathetic lanista cowering before him. The acrid scent of his fear made his wolf excited to see such submission on the man who had thought himself superior. His wolf wanted to attack, to kill. To drink this man’s blood. But the leader in him knew that wasn’t the best choice for his pack.
“Get the ship ready now.”
Felix nodded jerkily and reached for his communicator. Ravage listened intently as the man commanded his personal space jet to be prepped for take-off.
“It’ll be ready at the ludus,” Felix said.
“On your feet,” Ravage said. “You’ll be escorting us to your ship. And if you or any Sennex raider comes back to my planet, I will kill all of you and feast on your hearts. Do you understand me, Felix Crispus?”
The terrified lanista nodded, and a second later, the strong smell of urine permeated the air.
Aleirah rushed toward Ravage and he opened his arms, bringing his mate in close to his body. With Felix leading them, and eleven wolven beasts keeping guard, not many tried to help the perspiring lanista. A few guards tried to shoot at them, but their quaking arms misguided their aim, and the youngsters quickly took care of those fools.
The ludus lay to the east of the arena, far enough where they hopped onto Felix’s private transporter which rushed them back to the compound. Ravage stared at the clearly modern city in disgust, noting how robotics seemed to do all the work while the human grew fat and lazy. He half wondered if Sennex Prime was the same, with people sitting as machines took them everywh
ere.
Once at the ludus, Felix led them through the large, winding building, past the housing complex where he and his men had stayed, to the shuttle hangar. Guards pointed blasters at them, but Felix waved them away, clearly not wishing to be caught in the crossfire of any fight.
“You promised not to kill me,” Felix whispered as Fray sat in the pilot’s seat and went through a quick preflight inspection.
“Didn’t say I wouldn’t hurt you.” Ravage sneered right before he punched Felix in the nose. The bone snapped with a clear sound, and Felix screamed as he cradled his face. Blood ran down his lips and chin like a river, mingling with the other blood sprayed across his ceremonial garb. Ravage pushed Felix off the ship just as the door closed.
Chapter Seven
Ravage strode onto the command deck of his battle cruiser, back in human form. Once he and his men had passed out of Kappuah’s grid, the Lycan fleet had greeted them. He had taken only enough time to find clothes to put on before joining his men on deck.
“Lay in coordinates for home.” He barked out the command. Men immediately jumped to obey. “I want to leave this fucking grid far behind, and blow up that fucking ship out there.”
The targeting missiles locked onto Felix’s space jet and launched. The explosion was brief but satisfying.
Aleirah pressed her warm body against his. “What if they follow?”
Ravage shook his head. “I don’t think they will. But if they do, we’ll be ready. The mating celebration will have to change. We can never be vulnerable like that again.”
She slid her hands up his chest. A scent caught his attention, and he looked down at her in wondrous shock.
