by Ben Hale
“Who says you have to fail?”
“You want me to destroy your House?”
“I want you to destroy my father,” Skorn corrected. “And his House.”
The words were spoken with scathing vehemence, and Skorn looked away, as if irritated at his own show of emotion. The burst of hatred could have been intentional, an attempt to further manipulate Reklin, but he suspected it was genuine. Skorn wanted his father to die at Condemnation.
“You want to start your own House,” Reklin guessed.
“My father has too many failures to enumerate,” Skorn said. “And when the tribunal comes to an end, I wish to see the very public demise of House Bright’Lor.”
“And from the ashes you will rise.”
Reklin had vastly underestimated his target. For Skorn to found a new House, one where he was head, it would require the consent of the Emperor, or if the Emperor declined, the support of three other Houses.
“Why not just let him fall on his own?” Reklin asked. “Without your aid, Condemnation will find him guilty.”
“My plan requires time,” Skorn said. “And while Dragorn is under Condemnation, I have certain protections. In addition, one of my allies desires to witness Dragorn’s execution. I require their support.”
Skorn had already begun recruiting the three necessary Houses to create his own House, a daring plan. It also demonstrated significant forethought. The Emperor rarely granted the creation of new Houses, and once the father of Bright’Lor was condemned, Skorn and Ero would lose any bargaining capital they possessed. Skorn was selling his father’s demise for the foundation of his new House.
It was obvious Reklin’s entire mission had failed. Skorn knew his identity, his purpose, even his rank. Reklin knew he should just return to his commanding officers and report the failure, but something about Skorn’s conviction gave Reklin pause.
“You say I’m deceived,” Reklin said. “How?”
“They were never going to make you Bloodwall.”
Reklin scowled. “The oath has been given, and they are building my genesis chamber. I gave my horns for it.”
“Voice Malikin wants the end of Bright’Lor for his own purposes, but he is being manipulated by a royal. You’re smart enough to see that.”
Reklin didn’t like hearing his private suspicions voiced by his target but saw the opportunity to gain intel. He collected a cell regenerator and worked on his leg, feigning a lack of concern.
“If what you claim is correct, I assume you know who is giving Malikin orders?”
“There’s only one person with the authority to dispatch a judge with a contingent of soldiers to destroy an entire House—and do it secretly,” Skorn said. “And I don’t need to say his name because you already know.”
Dread settled into Reklin’s bones, deeper even than the thorfang’s tooth. Skorn was right. There was only one person with that much power, and it was the very person sitting on the throne.
“The Emperor,” he said.
“Indeed.”
Reklin leaned back against the wall, disturbed by what was obviously the truth. The most powerful krey in the galaxy wanted to exterminate House Bright’Lor and was on the verge of succeeding. Dragorn was under Condemnation, most of his children had been killed—probably by a Bloodblade—and Reklin had been sent after the last two sons.
“Malikin was given the Condemnation of your father because of his vendetta,” Reklin thought aloud.
“Yes,” Skorn said. “And when Bright’Lor is destroyed, the witnesses will be eliminated, and that includes you. I doubt they even plan on creating your genesis machine.”
“Why?” Reklin asked the only question left unanswered. “Why would the Emperor seek the death of a House?”
Skorn smiled faintly. “I have no idea.”
Was Skorn telling the truth? If he was, then Voice Malikin had sent him on a mission, intent on letting him die as a sacrifice for his ambitions, when he himself was being controlled by the Emperor.
He imagined the obvious choice, to return to Malikin and report his failure. Would the judge accept it? Or eliminate him and choose another to take his place? Reklin did not like how much of a possibility that seemed. But what was the alternative?
“Why tell me all this?” he asked.
“Because I want you to join me,” Skorn said.
“I can’t just abandon the Empire.” Reklin protested.
“I’m not asking you to.” Skorn gestured to the Crucible. “I will buy your contract and that of your unit. The four of you will serve me, and when your service to the Empire comes to an end, I will make you Bloodwall.”
“You?” Reklin scoffed. “You don’t have enough glint to buy my contract, let alone that of my companions, or the billions required to build a genesis chamber.”
“When my plan is complete, I will have more than enough.”
“I don’t believe you.” Reklin knew that House Bright’Lor had few resources, so how could he claim to possess so much glint?
Skorn shrugged. “Then I will find another dakorian to hire, and you will go back to the Empire empty-handed. We both know they will not grant you the rank you desire. If they don’t kill you and your team, you will finish your current service and then be dismissed. Your contract will not be renewed. You’re too old to become a Bloodwall, but you might get hired by a lower House to guard a noble. A secure, but boring position for one of your caliber. Or you could retire to your clan world and find a pretty dakorian wife. You’ll be a father for a few years, until age claims your life. Either way, you will die in obscurity.”
The vivid picture faded, and Skorn smiled in a way that made Reklin shudder. For all the krey he’d encountered, Skorn was more devious, more cunning, and far more cruel. Most krey favored deceit and lies, but Skorn used the truth like a blade, cutting deep into bone and heart. In a single conversation, he’d stripped Reklin of his loyalty to the Empire.
“How would you even buy my contract?” Reklin asked.
“With my winnings from your last contest. I bet on you to lose, so thank you for your service to the Empire.” He gave a mock bow. “I’ll leave my offer with the oddsmakers. If you accept, I’ll return to retrieve you and your unit tomorrow.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t.” Skorn’s eyes flicked down the hall and then back. “One more thing. I’d appreciate you keeping this conversation between us. Do not speak of it to your soldiers . . . or my brother.”
Skorn turned and departed, leaving Reklin feeling more wounded than in the last contest. He stared at the empty doorway until Worg walked into the room. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Was an oddsmaker in here?” Worg asked.
Reklin nodded, numb at the conversation he’d just endured. “He accused me of being a glintmonger.”
“Again?” Worg dug a cell regenerator out of his equipment crate and went to work on a gash. “I’m telling you, we should really bet on ourselves. We could have made a fortune over the last few weeks.”
“Then we would be glintmongers.”
“Is that a thorfang tooth?” Worg pointed his cell regenerator at the tooth resting next to Reklin. “How did you get it out?”
Reklin held the bottle of venom aloft. “I stored some in case we had a beast contest.”
“Smart of you.”
Worg finished sealing his wound. Reklin bent over his leg with his own regenerator, knitting the flesh and avoiding eye contact, hating how easy it was to lie to his soldiers.
As he knit the wound in his leg, Teridon and Alina entered, both limping. They talked of their last contest, the conversation amused. Reklin and his soldiers had taken the last contests as a challenge, to continue to beat the oddsmakers trying to kill them. They were good soldiers, and Reklin trusted them, but this was not a question they could solve. Rising, he returned the regenerator to his crate.
“I have a report to send to Malikin. We don’t have any more contests until tomorro
w, so take the time to recover.”
They accepted the order without question, and Reklin stepped into the hall. He strode to the practice rooms but passed them by. Wandering up and down the endless tunnels, Reklin eventually found his feet taking him to the private wing, where the champions were given large, expansive quarters, the reward for their spilled blood and high value. Few had the chance to enjoy the residences for long. Reklin came to a halt before a door and brushed his hand across the embedded crystal. A moment later, a human slave opened the door and looked up at him.
“Yes?” he asked.
Reklin hesitated and glanced down the empty hall. But he’d come this far, and his body knew where to go for answers. He rotated to face the slave and lowered his voice.
“I’d like to see Blackhorn.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The slave disappeared, and Reklin waited, uncertain of his reception. Blackhorn was the highest-ranked dakorian in the Bone Crucible, a position he’d held for a record time. Thousands had sought to depose him. All had failed. Reklin himself doubted his ability to defeat the soldier.
Quicker than Reklin expected, the slave returned and opened the door, permitting Reklin entry into the lavish trappings of the first-rank quarters. Dakorians typically did not care for such elements, but for the first-ranked dakorian, it was a necessity so long as they retained their standings.
At the end of a short hallway was a giant central room, a cavern in its own right. Other dakorian quarters on Dedliss were subterranean, to make room for more arenas on the surface, but Blackhorn’s quarters boasted enormous windows overlooking a private grotto of trees. In the haven, a small stream trickled into a pond of crystal-green water, large enough for a dakorian to swim. A waterfall cascaded into the pond on the opposite side, the light reflecting the moonlight. Completely surrounded by high cliffs, the grotto prevented any view of other arenas, a refuge for one who lived by the lance.
The chamber overlooking the grotto contained comfortable couches, with a crackling fire in a hearth at one side. Meat roasted over the hearth, the smoke rising into a hanging chimney.
Corridors extended away from the central chamber, and Reklin caught a glimpse of a large training room at the end of one corridor. Its walls were filled with weapons of every type.
A balcony circled the second level of the main room, also overlooking the lower level and facing the glass wall. More corridors extended away, presumably to sleeping quarters. Reklin had been raised in a home a tenth the size, with walls bereft of decorations except for weapons. He’d lived and breathed training, and never given thought to his home, or its furnishings.
“Are you hungry?”
Reklin turned to find Blackhorn exiting the kitchens with raw meat on a spit. He stepped to the fire and placed it above the heat, socketing the spit so it began to rotate. Juices dripped from the other rotating meats, and Reklin’s mouth watered at the savory scent.
“I have already eaten,” Reklin told him.
Blackhorn smiled faintly. “You’re from clan Hammerdin, if I’m not mistaken, so you were taught that food was meant to fuel the body, and nothing more.”
“Our bodies are a weapon.” Reklin nodded, not surprised by Blackhorn’s knowledge. All dakorians studied the other clans, as much to know their allies as to know potential foes.
“It may surprise you to realize that I’m also from Hammerdin.”
Reklin gestured to the room and food, confused. Members of the Hammerdin clan would have been embarrassed to be found living in such a room, but Blackhorn showed no such chagrin.
Blackthorn smiled faintly at the unspoken question. “The Empire treats our race as soldiers—as weapons. Our way of life, our culture, even our food, was planned to forge us into servants to the Empire.”
“That’s what we are,” Reklin said.
“For now,” he said. “But someday you might learn that there is more to life than service to the krey.”
Reklin didn’t know how to respond. His entire existence had shaped him to the pinnacle of physical and mental perfection, to be a warrior to the Empire. Blackhorn cooked like a slave and lived in a house that rivaled a krey home. Reklin’s thoughts rebelled at the mere prospect of living in such luxury, and he took a step back toward the door.
“Perhaps this was a mistake.”
“Nonsense.” Blackhorn motioned him closer. “I wager you have not tasted real meat in ages.”
Reklin’s eyes flicked to the roasting meat and then back. “Not since my last visit to Rebor.”
Blackhorn’s eyes lit up as he salted the meat and dripped dark liquid onto it, causing it to sizzle anew. “Do you remember hunting oliths and varbels?”
“The hunt was better than the meat.”
Reklin had gone hunting with his father and brothers, and he had fond memories of searching caverns and crags for the wily oliths, or the forests and creeks for the predatory varbels. When found, a varbel always fought, using the claws on its six legs to dangerous effect.
“This meat is from a quel’dor, from House Jek’Orus,” Blackhorn said. “It was harvested from one of the massive herds on the world of Verdun. It costs a fortune, but it’s worth every bite.”
Reklin shook his head, grappling with the contradiction. Dakorians endured brutal training, especially for Hammerdin clan, which supplied more elites than any other clans. There was no place for succulent meats and comfortable homes. Reklin had expected stark and barren quarters, and a dakorian focused entirely on combat. Instead, the greatest soldier in the Crucible in a century—or even a millennium—behaved like a krey.
No, Reklin corrected himself. Krey lived for luxury and craved glint, but even in the comfortable home of Blackhorn, there was a simplicity to the furnishings and decorations, not of wealth, but of function. Blackhorn smiled as if he understood Reklin’s confusion and then raised his voice.
“Belrisa! The meat is ready.”
Reklin turned when a young dakorian appeared on the balcony of the second floor. She stood at nearly Reklin’s height, but it was obvious she was not fully grown. Her features were light, her bones lacking the hardness of adulthood. She caught the balcony railing and leapt over, dropping the twenty feet to land on the floor.
Blackhorn sighed. “How many times have I asked you to use the riser?”
“I cannot recall,” she said.
The young dakorian female sauntered to the fire, eyeing Reklin warily. The proximity allowed Reklin to see that she was probably just seventeen or eighteen years of age, still just a whelp. Yet she stood tall, her horns showing a slight curve, her muscles already powerful. She moved with more grace than even Blackhorn. Reklin had stood before many mighty dakorians, but the girl’s very presence commanded respect.
“Reklin, this is my daughter, Belrisa.”
“I was not aware you had a daughter.”
“A well-known secret,” Blackhorn said with a smile.
“Not if you’d let me fight in the contests,” Belrisa said sourly.
“The Crucible is not in your future,” Blackhorn said.
“Why do we have a guest?”
The girl picked up a knife, spinning the blade through her fingers with practiced ease before she sliced a section of meat from the rotating spit and speared it. She leaned against the wall and took a bite, still watching Reklin.
“Reklin wants to understand,” Blackhorn said.
“Why his clan lives in the past?” she replied.
Blackhorn grunted in irritation. “Please collect your meal and return to your training. Our guest does not need to hear your opinions.”
“My opinions were taught by my father,” she said pointedly, and then picked up one of the spits. She slung it over her shoulder and departed without a backward glance, disappearing into the training room. The meat dripped onto the floor, but the Lorenwhite material absorbed the drops. The door shut with a thud.
After a moment of silence, Reklin raised an eyebrow. “She will be an excellent Bloo
dwall someday and easily over twelve feet in height.”
“You want to know why she is not on Rebor with the rest of the clan,” Blackhorn said.
Reklin could not deny the obvious question. Young dakorians—regardless of where they were born—were sent to the clan worlds to be raised by relatives in the clan. Rarely did a blood father or mother raise a child. Reklin considered himself fortunate for having been raised by Sheklin.
“Is it not our custom?” Reklin asked.
Blackhorn checked the meat and removed one of the spits. He placed the end in a receptacle at the center of the table, the hilt upward, the point into the table. Taking a seat, he began carving the meat and placing the slices on a plate. Then he returned the spit to the fire and ripped a piece of meat off the sliced portions for a sample. He smiled at the taste and nodded to himself, and then motioned to the chair across from him.
Reklin hesitated but realized he had yet to obtain the answers he sought. Or even the questions. He wondered why he’d come to the Blackhorn, where it seemed he was left with more confusion than he’d had upon arrival.
Reluctantly, he joined Blackhorn at the table, and the dakorian pointed to the utensils next to the sizzling spit. Curious despite his reserve, Reklin picked up the tong and knife and sliced a thin portion. The scent was intoxicating, and Reklin’s training told him to rebel, to avoid what could be deemed a luxury. But Blackhorn nodded in encouragement, and Reklin took a bite.
The tender meat seemed to melt on his tongue, spicy and charred on the outside, juicy and soft on the inside. He chewed slowly, shocked by the surge of joy, and the touch of shame.
“Leave the luxuries to the vapid krey,” Reklin’s father had once said. “We are dakorians and have no need for items of such nature.”
Reklin carefully placed the tong and knife back onto the table. Blackhorn did not press him on it and continued to eat, his black eyes settling on Reklin. For several moments the silence remained, a gulf between them.
“Tell me about your family,” Blackhorn said. “I assume you grew up on Rebor?”
