by Ben Hale
“Too expensive.” Reklin motioned to the plain seracrete dagger in her supply. “Take that.”
Alina groaned but traded the two weapons and closed the door to her personal store. One by one the others followed suit, and Reklin took his place at their head, sweeping the room with a lingering look.
All dakorian military units were given a home, usually on an Empire-controlled world. As a Shard team, Reklin and his three soldiers had been given a coveted home in Vornblade, the western district of Valana.
Comprising the entire 837th level of the tower, their home boasted windows on all sides, allowing a high view of the military district of Valana. Their quarters contained a central eating area that connected to private sleeping compartments, a spacious training chamber, a Gate chamber, and the armory, where each had their own room for their gear.
The armory included four smallish compartments, each the size of an expansive closet. Weapons, explosives, and other tools—everything they would need for any assignment—hung on walls and filled crates. Reklin himself had four blades. His new blade hung in a position of prominence across from the door. Around his personal armory, other weapons included hammer lances, old and new, a variety of explosives.
Reklin shut the door to his armory and looked out the window as he tightened the strap of his blade sheath. Through the other home towers, he could just see the curve of Throne in the distance. Clouds drifted through its towers, which resembled enormous blades that pierced the sky.
“No dets?” Teridon asked as he held up a small, black sphere.
With a weaponized gravity sphere, the det could be tossed upward, where it would hover and give light for several minutes, or be thrown at the ground, where it would detonate all its power in an instant.
“We’re poor, remember?” Reklin pointed to Worg’s armory. “No dets.”
“So I can’t take this?” Worg asked, holding up a det belt designed to hang around his shoulder.
Alina and Teridon grinned while Worg maintained an expression of yearning mixed with innocence.
Reklin’s lips twitched into a smile. “Next time.”
Worg sighed in regret and stepped into his armory to hang the belt on the wall. He patted the line of explosives and whispered to it like it was an old friend. Then he joined the other three.
“At least in the Bone Crucible we’ll see combat,” he said.
“But we’re supposed to lose.” Alina strode out of the armories and into the central chamber. Couches and tables dotted the space, enough for visitors. Built mostly of seracrete, they were not the soft seats of krey or humans, and were built specifically to accommodate dakorian physiology, with spaces for the bone spikes on their shoulders and upper backs. The furniture had seen little use in the last several years, as Reklin had taken his unit from assignment to assignment.
The team of four crossed the space and entered the Gate, passing one of the slaves that cared for their home. The woman stepped to the side without a word, and Reklin registered her presence enough to note she was the usual slave. Identity crystals were required in the entire district, even for slaves, who were occasionally used by the Houses for infiltration.
He stepped into the Gate chamber and activated the Gate, the portal taking them to a giant pyramidal structure in the middle of the barracks towers. Instead of glass and crystal windows, the walls were all reinforced seracrete plating, enough to withstand bombardment by dreadnaught ships in orbit.
With the faint smell of wet steel, the corridors, offices, and training rooms of the 129th Dakorian Divisional Command rose a mile off the surface of Valana. Dakorians and slaves mingled in the halls, the slaves busy with mundane assignments. Most soldiers did not care for cleaning or cooking mechs, both of which could be modified by a skilled krey for espionage.
“Any thoughts on what to do after this assignment?” Worg asked.
“Why?” Alina asked, and her voice turned faintly sardonic. “Isn’t this all you ever wanted?” She gestured to the weapon-adorned walls and flags of ancient dakorian clans.
“I want to join a House,” Teridon said. “The glint is much better, and I won’t be risking my life hunting down the dregs of the Empire.”
“When I finish my century, I’ll rejoin my clan world.” Worg winked slyly. “We all know Rogonith clan is the greatest.”
His words inspired a chorus of argument, and Reklin grinned. His own clan of Hammerdin was the largest of the seven. Rogonith was second largest, but its members were renowned for their pride. With billions of members living on their clan world and even more serving throughout the Empire, perhaps their claim had merit.
Teridon shrugged. “I don’t really have any plans after I finish my cent.”
“You’re only on your fifth decade,” Alina said. “You have plenty of time to figure it out.”
“Time has a way of catching up to you,” Reklin said, though not loud enough for the others to hear.
Dakorians served the Empire from the age of thirty to one hundred and thirty, when they could continue in their service or seek employment elsewhere. Most chose to join a House, where the glint was better, while some, like Reklin, decided to remain in the Empire, a better route to becoming a Bloodwall.
“Captain,” Alina said, sidling up to him and lowering her voice. “Did you figure out why Malikin is involved in this assignment?”
Reklin lowered his voice as well. “I beamcast a few contacts, but no one knew anything about House Bright’Lor. Whoever it is, they aren’t military.”
“Maybe in the fleet?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No fleet officer has direct authority over a judge, or us, for that matter. This has to be coming from a noble. Probably one with black eyes.”
“So a member of the Imperial line wants to destroy Bright’Lor? Why?”
“I don’t know,” Reklin said. “But they are stepping outside the normal chain of command.”
“The krey are always a little on the corrupt side,” she said. “But this is far enough to invite a Reckoning.”
“Which is why they’re using Malikin,” Reklin said. “Whatever happens, remember that we have two objectives. The first is to obey our orders, but the second is identify who is giving orders to Malikin. Then we can turn them over to Condemnation.”
“If they’re powerful enough to control a judge, who’s going to investigate?” she asked.
“I have a few officers in Reckoning we can trust,” Reklin said. “When the time comes, we’ll make sure both Bright’Lor and our mysterious noble receives the due justice.”
“You know, I haven’t met very many dakorians that value integrity as much as you.”
“We’re supposed to be the shield that keeps the Empire intact,” Reklin said. “Would you expect anything less?”
She gave a faint smile. “I just respect you, that’s all.”
“Thank you, lieutenant.”
“Captain,” Worg said, catching up to them. “You have to side with me on this one. My clan has won the last three clan contests against Teridon’s clan. Surely you’ll side with me on this.”
Reklin grinned. “I’m not taking sides.”
As the others fell into an argument over the best clan, Reklin watched the passing dakorians, noting the rare Bloodwall. All regarded Reklin’s hornless status with disgust, as they should, considering they did not know Reklin’s assignment.
He smiled, pleased at his future. He could weather a decade of shame if that’s what it took to return his family to honor. They reached the series of World Gates in the base of the structure, and Reklin entered the one indicated by their orders. The open doorway led to a square chamber, the ceiling pointed to allow room for the towering black arch. Like all the World Gates under dakorian operation, theirs required authorization codes to activate, using special crystals coded with unique signatures. In the room, Malikin and Quel were both waiting.
“Captain,” Malikin greeted him.
“Voice Malikin.” Reklin swep
t a hand to the krey. “I was not expecting you to be here.”
“An assignment as important as this requires supervision.”
Malikin surveyed the four dakorians, his eyes drifting between their worn cloaks, dingy pants, and aged weapons. Even their boots were cracked, indicating decades of use. All supported their personas of dakorians released from service by the Krey Empire for killing another soldier. All four had their ranks burned from their horns.
“It is enough,” Malikin said, then returned his attention to Reklin. “Your contracts have been sold to House Torn’Ent, which you have accepted, and your official records altered to show you murdering a dakorian from another unit. Only those in this room, the Bone Council, and High Voice Shenorix are aware of the truth. Upon your return, you will be reinstated to your former ranks. Are you ready to complete your assignment?”
All four saluted by touching the bone armor on their shoulders, and Quel matched the gesture.
“You are a Shard unit in the Empire’s military, but your personas are of the lowest of ranks,” Malikin said. “You must lower your value enough that House Bright’Lor can afford your contracts. Otherwise they will choose someone else. Display too much skill in the Bone Crucible, and you will be discovered. Display too little, and you will be dead.”
“Kill the enemy, but be sloppy.” Worg shrugged. “Can’t be that hard. It’s not like the Bone Crucible is filled with elite dakorians.”
Quel grunted his agreement and stepped to the control panel for the Gate. He activated his holoview and linked to the Gate, making its silver liquid flow into place beneath the Gate’s arch.
Reklin advanced first but glanced back to Malikin, who bore a dark smile of anticipation. “To the downfall of House Bright’Lor,” Malikin said.
“Don’t you mean to the integrity of the Empire?” Reklin asked.
Malikin glared at him. “In this case, it is the same.”
Reklin faced the Gate and stepped through, immediately replacing the clean, iron-tinged scent with the smell of sweat and blood. The Gate exited into a subterranean chamber just high enough for their horns, the walls a dark, volcanic red.
Dakorians spoke in low tones inside hundreds of chambers on either side of a long corridor. They were not cells, but the bars in the doors gave them that appearance. Interspersing the private quarters were larger open areas that held training equipment and targets, all of which were in use by other Crucible fighters.
A towering dakorian with black horns picked up a smaller dakorian and hurled him bodily across the space, slamming him through a door and into the room beyond. He snarled his triumph and struck another in the jaw, knocking him to the floor.
“The Blackhorn,” Worg murmured from behind, his voice filled with awe. “He’s top of the ranks.”
Teridon’s voice was sour. “If we were not restrained, he would be no match for us.”
“Don’t get arrogant,” Reklin said, and then spotted a harried krey striding toward them.
“You!” a red-eyed krey barked. “You are late.”
Remembering he was an outcast, Reklin kept his voice sullen. “I don’t care.”
“You will care,” the krey said, striding up to them and activating the gravity boots, which allowed him to rise and glare at Reklin. “You’re just bags of bones, ready to see your blood spilled for the cheers of others. House Torn’Ent now owns your employment contracts, and this”—he gestured to the endless rows of barred rooms—“is now your home. The Gates are open to you should you wish to depart, but failure to reappear for your next contest will be grounds for a termination of your contract, and you will not receive the wages from your past four contests. If you do breach your contract, you’ll also be deemed unhireable by most of the Houses, leaving you to find employment in the dregs of the Empire. Is that clear?”
Worg bristled, but Reklin shifted to stand between Worg and the krey. “It is.”
“Then follow me, you ugly brutes, and I’ll show you to your quarters.”
The krey whirled and floated away, and Worg leaned forward and whispered in Reklin’s ear, “Permission to snap his arrogant little neck?”
“Denied.”
“Crush his skull?”
“Also denied.”
Worg released a weighty sigh. “Do I get to kill anyone?”
Reklin fell into step behind the krey, his eyes sweeping the dakorians eyeing him and his companions. Brooding and violent, these were dakorians guilty of bloodletting, bribery, corruption, and murder. Many bore tattoos, the black ink dark against their bones. Others were marked with phosphorescent ink called glow, which inspired hallucinations until they faded into the shimmering tattoos. Scars were even more abundant. The dakorian fighters examined Reklin and his companions like fresh meat from a kill, many glancing at his horns. They sneered at the sight, and he heard many whispering his new status.
Hornless.
Reklin doubted finding a foe to kill would be a problem. The challenge would be staying alive long enough to catch Ero’s or Skorn’s notice. He had no illusions about the coming months. The four of them were elite dakorians, trained to the pinnacle of combat perfection, but in a sea of dangerous dakorians, even they could not last forever.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Their krey guide showed Reklin and his team to their quarters, a small square of stone with a single door. Several dakorian beds occupied the back, with a few aged travel trunks for equipment and clothing. Food was on every block and was more flavorful than Reklin had expected.
The Bone Crucible wasted no time in putting them to work, and shortly after they finished their first meal, Reklin and Worg were given a contest. Reklin gave orders to Teridon and Alina to stay watchful, and then they made their way to the battle ready room.
As large as a Delvinoriq starship cargo bay, the battle ready room contained a dozen Gates on either side, allowing fighters to portal directly into the many arenas. Dakorians laughed and hefted their weapons before stepping into a portal, even as others returned, bloodied and beaten. Many sniffed in scorn at Reklin, their eyes flicking to his cut horns. He tried to ignore them and reminded himself that they would be returned when his current mission was complete.
“They really don’t think much of you,” Worg said in an undertone.
“They are supposed to,” Reklin said. “We need our value to be low enough for House Bright’Lor to purchase our contracts.”
“These missions for Reckoning are more dangerous than orders from the Bone Council.”
Reklin had to agree with that, but he was beginning to wonder if they were on loan to Reckoning at all. If he had to guess, the investigative branch of the Empire probably had no idea that Reklin and his team were currently under their direction.
Reklin remembered his first meeting with Malikin and Quel, back before he and his team had been sent to retrieve Belgin. They’d met onboard Malikin’s ship, the Kildor. The starship had been a highly advanced warship that Reklin had never heard of, and at the time, Reklin had thought it was just a demonstration of Malikin’s wealth. But now it seemed the ship didn’t actually belong to the judge and had merely been given to him so he could move about freely while destroying House Bright’Lor.
“Do all Reckoning officers use Enex-class starships?” he asked.
Worg raised an eyebrow at the odd question. “As far as I know. Why?”
Reklin didn’t answer. The Kildor was undeniably a warship. Although Reklin had only seen a portion of the ship, it probably had at least ten decks, a class nine plasma cannon threaded down the interior, and a crew complement of hundreds—a stark difference to the small bricklike Enex ships.
“I’ve never seen a ship like this before,” Reklin had said.
“The Kildor is unique,” Malikin had replied with a smirk.
At the time, Reklin had thought he was just referring to the ship’s complement, but now Reklin wondered if he’d been referring to the ship’s class. Starships were expensive to make, so they were
always built in volume. Even dreadnaughts like Heltorgreathians were built in groups.
As Reklin watched the dakorians exit the battle ready room through the Gates, he realized the most foreboding element was not the ship itself, but the idea that Reckoning was not actually involved in the Bright’Lor investigation. And now that Reklin’s team were undercover, only a handful even knew the truth about Reklin’s real identity.
A deep cold settled on Reklin. Throughout his military career, reinforcements had been just a beamcast away, usually from a support starship in a nearby system. Even when Reklin had previously been undercover, he’d known he was not alone. But not this time. This time, if he failed, he knew in his gut there would be no rescue. On this mission, he and his team were truly alone.
“Firepit Arena is now open,” a krey called. “Fighters, get to your start positions.”
“That’s us,” Worg said, his voice eager.
Reklin nodded on the outside, but on the inside, he caged his doubt into a grim resolve. He would see this through, and then he was going to hunt Malikin’s silent noble and drag them into the light.
The Gate in front of Reklin and Worg brightened, and Worg approached the portal. Armed only with Reklin’s broken blade and Worg’s weak hammer lance, they passed through a Gate into a warground named the Firepit.
Littered with towers, tunnels, and high paths, the Firepit floated on gravity repulsors inside the throat of a crevasse. Reklin lifted his gaze to the distinguishing feature of the arena—the curtain of lava that surrounded the battleground.
The molten rock fed lethal streams that crisscrossed the floor of the arena. The currents bubbled and spit their way under bridges and through deep channels before pouring into a hole at the center. Waves of heat rose from the lava, filling the air with the scent of sulfur and ash.
Above the edge of the Firepit, a volcano was just visible, its peak contained inside a giant shield. Inside the barrier, Ro fighters darted through the smog and sent ion bolts from lance rods beneath their wings. One fighter swerved into a cave to enter the hollow interior of the volcano and flipped through a waterfall of lava, the molten rock splattering off its shields.
