The Great Game

by O. J. Lowe

  Saarth said nothing, just brought back her fallen kirofax and smiled at him. He ignored the gesture, just folded his arms defiantly. One to me, bitch.

  Her next choice gave him a little more thought for worry, a giant silver ape with very pronounced fangs protruding out of the huge jaws that immediately rose on its hind legs and powerfully beat its chest with both hands. The hands that were bigger than Scott’s head. It dwarfed him too, it could have bent him in half with very minimal effort by his guess. He looked down at Seasel in his stricken state and gulped. Not a chance this was going to be a winning victory for the weasel. Not in this condition. It wasn’t defeatist, it was realism.

  Still it didn’t mean they couldn’t get a few good blows in. The command to get underway was given and it was punctuated by Seasel’s water blast. If nothing else, it’d be a good way to gauge its strength. The heat had died down; the attacks should be working again. They were, he saw the blast hit the gorilla in the stomach and he’d hoped it’d double over in pain. No such luck there, it rubbed the struck area with the back of a clawed hand and bellowed angrily. Well, they’d made it angry. That was a good start.

  Saarth cocked her head to the side and the ape charged in on Seasel, bringing one of those huge fists back with the very clear intent of smashing him into the ground. Even wounded, Seasel was quick enough to evade the cumbersome blow, darting off out the way. Scott could feel his discomfort through their link and he winced. Seasel genuinely was hurting out there. The heat had done a number on him.

  Come on, come on, just a little more.

  The teeth flashed in the sunlight again and Seasel bit down on the back of the gorilla’s leg, about the only part of it he could reach from the ground, holding on there for several long moments. It turned its head around, glanced down at the weasel for a moment, a puzzled look on its face as if to say ‘really?’ They’d been aiming for the hamstring, hoping to lame it but he got the impression that hadn’t been the best idea with hindsight.

  As the other leg came stamping down with intent of crushing Seasel beneath its weight, the weasel got away but just barely. Until the giant fat foot came crushing down on his tail and the weasel howled in utter agony, the sound of breaking bone filling the stadium and silencing the crowd. It wouldn’t be a fatal wound but it’d hurt like a son of a bitch and Scott couldn’t bear to hear that sound ever again.

  Genuinely speaking, it didn’t do for a spirit caller to be squeamish. But you’d have to have a heart of stone not to be touched by a sound like that. Saarth looked sick, her mouth turning down in disgust. But not for long, he saw as her spirit reached down and scooped the shuddering Seasel up in both hands. Scott knew then it was over, didn’t close his eyes as he saw the ape take a half of the weasel in each hand and twist. Shutting his eyes wouldn’t have cut out the sound Seasel’s spine made as it was shattered. He stiffened though, held his breath and exhaled sharply.

  Fuck!

  He wasn’t having that. Not a chance. Seasel had done a good job, he murmured that to the crystal as he brought the spirit back and selected his next option. Wasn’t his fault he got beat, he’d just run into an opponent in which he’d been physically outmatched while gravely injured following the previous bout.

  Next choice was Herc, the giant stagbug coming in ready to fight. This’d be a much more even contest. With that thick armour making up his carapace and prodigious strength, Herc’d win this one no sweat no doubt.

  “Good job, Sarge,” Saarth said, rubbing her hands together. She’d painted her nails a different colour on each finger. “Now let’s do more.”

  Scott grinned coldly. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. Herc. Put it down.”

  He didn’t hear the buzz so much as feel it and Herc and Sarge went at each other the moment it went, limbs coming up to deal savage blows and Scott kept up the instructions. The horn was where Herc’s true strength lay, a blow with that could overturn a speeder but at the same time, he guessed Saarth might know that he knew that. As an opening gambit, he couldn’t stomach it. The limbs could deal heavy blows themselves, she probably wouldn’t expect that. Probably.

  Herc reached the surang ape first, moved his head as if to swing his horn and Scott spotted the movements in Sarge’s body, commanded Herc to feint and punch. He heard the blow hit hard stomach muscle and he winced. He was quite glad his overgrown bug didn’t have any bones hearing that. Sarge’s nostrils flared and the ape flung out a huge fist straight into Herc’s midsection. Another crack, Scott’s eyes began to twitch at the echoing force of the blow. He didn’t want to see what might have come of that. Herc’s carapace was thick. He’d modified it to be thick. But he didn’t want to know how strong that damn ape might be in up close.

  Change of plan. We’re not going toe to toe here. It’d be a bad idea. Up into the air.

  Translucent wings snapped out from the rear of Herc’s shell, fluttered too fast for the eye to see and he hovered up out the way of the next blow, not moving as easily as he might have before.

  It felt cold in the stadium suddenly, he wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. That wasn’t right, surely. The sun was blazing down still. Was the big ape doing something? Could be. He didn’t know. If it was, then he needed to take it out as soon as he could. This was distracting.

  Technically there was a rule about targeting the caller. But it only really worked if you could prove intent. Raise the temperature, lower it, it’d affect the caller of the enemy spirit but it could be argued that it wasn’t the intention of the opponent. The best way to deal with it was to knock the spirit causing the problem out as fast as possible.

  He tried to move his attention back to the fight, ordered Herc to swoop in and deal vicious cross thrusts into Sarge’s face with his forelegs. There was something here that just didn’t feel right about it. If Saarth’s spirit was lowering the temperature, then surely Herc would be affected. But that wasn’t the case. Blow injury aside, everything looked normal. He heard Sarge bellow in anger and pain as clawed forelegs dug into the squashed face, blood ran down the silver fur and a big meaty forearm swung out blindly, hoping to catch Herc.

  It wasn’t a wild miss but a miss all the same. He breathed a sigh of relief for the moment. Still in this.

  Still in it for now…

  Chapter Forty-Five. Caged Rage.

  “The important thing is not knowing when to strike. It is knowing when not to strike. No cage will ever hold you. No mortal man will ever break you. Nobody will ever be able to tame you. You both are heirs of the legacy of the Cavanda. I promise you that. You are better than everyone else!”

  Amalfus to Kyra Sinclair and Gideon Cobb, long ago.

  The seventeenth day of Summerdawn.

  The cage wasn’t the best situation, she had to admit but it could have been worse. They’d fed her, watered her, kept her comfortable. So far, she was waiting for the other foot to fall. To what end did it really benefit them keeping her here like this? Why? Maybe they planned to take it all away to make her talk. An interesting theory and perhaps it would work on someone had they not been trained the way she had. From everything to nothing. An interesting interrogation technique to be sure. She didn’t doubt it was probably their intention. To make her spill whatever secrets they thought she had. Good. If they thought she was valuable she could continue to play out this charade.

  That she could escape at any upcoming time she desired did not even come into her thinking. She’d been captured and that stung a lot but she intended to turn this around on them. She was caged but that didn’t make her a captive. Far from it. If anything, that cage just kept them safe from her for a little while longer. It had been the first thing she’d done upon awaking from her reverie, her body sore and complaining from the force of the stun blasts but she’d checked out all avenues of exit. The Kjarn had guided her, told her that the bars to her cage could be overcome given the right amount of careful effort. Time was hard to fathom but she’d spent enough of it weakening the structure
of them to the point that minimal effort on her part would see them collapse in on themselves.

  More than that, she had to leave with something if only for her own peace of mind. The way she’d fallen in battle grated and she needed that something to avenge it. Falling was fine if it served a purpose, only a fool fought gravity. If she destroyed an enemy out of being captured, then it would not seem overtly weak on her part.

  Cobb might buy that. The master probably wouldn’t. But should it gain results, he wouldn’t care in the slightest. Besides it wasn’t like he was around to approve or disprove of her actions either way.

  Her thoughts went to him. And of the kickback she’d felt in the Kjarn when she’d killed those two men, when she’d let loose with all the force she could muster and hammered them into death. He’d always warned her and Cobb. Kill with the Kjarn and it will hurt you more than you can imagine…

  The first few times anyway, Master Amalfus was someone she’d seen do it with so much abandon that she’d thought surely it wouldn’t be that bad. How wrong had she been? The kjarnblade was the get-out for it of course. Despite the composition of the weapon utilising the energy as a power source for its potent blade, using it hurt no more than it would using a blaster to snuff them out.

  Maybe when she’d killed two of them at the same time, the cumulative effect had just overwritten her ability to cope. Lots of maybes. She’d felt it, she knew that much, she knew there wasn’t any other likely reason and she also knew that if they hadn’t been using stun blasts, she’d be dead. Kyra wondered where her kjarnblade was, she hoped they hadn’t left it in that cave. Retrieving it from there or fashioning a new one, both would be an equal hassle she could do without.

  As the time went by, she’d spent it in meditation, honing, refining, forging anew her connections to the Kjarn. In teasing out her time, renewing her acquaintances with it, she found that things she’d failed to grasp before were slowly becoming a little clearer. Maybe this time wouldn’t be a complete waste.

  At the same time, more than once, she could have sworn she could sense another presence utilising the Kjarn close by and she wondered if she was the prisoner of the Vedo. She rejected it almost immediately. For one, they were pretty much all dead and they wouldn’t use shock troops to catch her. And besides, if she was close to some Vedo, she’d surely sense more than a few sporadic bursts. Although they were getting more frequent, she thought. She couldn’t tell for certain. The boredom was slowly starting to get to her. How much more time before she gave up on it as a bad job and walked out of here? As a torture technique, boredom was worse than deprivation. Just. For her anyway.

  Still some part of her held back, refused to give in and she meditated continuously, focused to the point that she didn’t eat or sleep. Meals went untouched. Sometimes she didn’t even need to use the bathroom, her bodily functions slowly creeping towards minimal. When she finally broke for breaks, it was often with great relief.

  Then it happened. She found herself with a visitor. She’d been alone for what felt so long now, nobody but her own company, the sound of her voice startled her a little as she took in the arrivals. Six of the same black clad masked goons flanking a huge fat guy with long purpling hair and a ratty acid green jacket. She caught a sense of him immediately and she didn’t like it, an unpleasant aura lurked about him in the Kjarn. Something foul and malignant.

  She decided she didn’t want to look further into him than the fleeting glance she’d just gotten. Still, there was no point showing that he’d gotten to her. More than that, there was something familiar about him that she couldn’t place, a face without a name. She’d seen him before somewhere and it felt wholly unnerving to be wrong footed like this. The goons were still a mystery she couldn’t figure out, again not six single figures but rather an overlapping pool that lacked any sort of individuality.

  “Welcome, welcome,” she said, rising to her feet. She’d cast her shoes aside long since and she winced as she felt the blood flow returning to her legs. “If I’d known you were coming here, I’d have tidied up a little. Maybe baked a cake.”

  He didn’t reply but shot her a mean little glance, his plump pale lips folding in at the corners.

  “You’re quiet,” she said, folding her arms. “Not here to talk? You’re going to hurt my feelings.”

  Still he said nothing.

  “Silent treatment? Really?” She almost scoffed out the words. “I can do that with the best of them.” And yet, I’m still talking now about it. There’s irony for you. “If you’re not going to talk, I’m not going to pay you any attention.”

  She dropped back down to a sitting position and went back to meditation. At least she didn’t have to dwell on this fucking fool for long. Anger at him was good. It’d keep her strong, a razorblade of her emotions she had to balance on. The right amount would keep her strong. Too much or too little would be disastrous. Maybe she should use the Kjarn to slam him face-first into the bars of her cage, laugh as she heard his bones break.

  Before she could go under, she heard the tap-tap-tap of metal on metal ringing in her ears and opened her eyes in irritation. He’d leaned forward onto the bars of her cage, something tapping against them. She knew what it was without looking, it’d be a poor day when she failed to recognise her own weapon.

  “Interesting,” he said. “Very interesting weapon that you have here. How does it work?”

  It was a taunt, she knew that. If she reacted now, it could be fatal. What chances she could snatch it from him, cut her way free and block the first flurry of shots that came her way without being hurt? It wasn’t impossible. In theory, she could do it. Of course, putting that theory into practice was something entirely different.

  “Same as any weapon,” she said breezily. “In the right hands, it is lethal. In the wrong ones, it’ll take your hand off.”

  He probably already knew the answer. If she’d thought it’d work, she’d tell him exactly how to impale himself on it. Kjarnblades had undergone a radical design change in recent decades her master had once told her. Once they had only been able to be handled by those with a connection to the Kjarn. Now however, that was no longer the case. There were always opportunists in the world. Still even so, it wasn’t a common weapon.

  “Nice to see you still have concern for my wellbeing.” His voice was sarcastic, mocking. Still he tapped the metal cylinder against the bars. “I was half expecting you to be rabid and to try and chew my face off.”

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Wouldn’t get me anywhere, would it?” she asked evenly. “Where am I?”

  “You’re on death row,” he said simply. “As far as you’re concerned, this will be the last room you ever see. You’re going to spend the last few of your days here and they will slowly tick away one by one. You’re going to die in the most horrible way I can think of.” He smiled at her coldly, his eyes glittering with malice. “Something for you to look forward to, I think.”

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Kyra wondered once more if planning and patience were overrated in this situation. Playing placid was one thing but she wouldn’t have another chance like this perhaps. She needed to take what was being offered to her.

  “Maybe I’ll eat you.” He bared his teeth at her. “You look good enough to serve up for dinner.” He smacked his lips, wiggled his tongue at her, she studied him in disgust. Loathing filled her being, anger flickering through her at being put in this situation.

  “And you might choke,” she said. “Hard to eat anything ever again with no teeth… Seriously where have I seen you before?” It was starting to bug her. “You like famous or something?”

  “Famous?!” He looked offended. “Dear little bitch, dear sweet soon-to-be dead harlot, I’m infamous.” He cracked his knuckles together. “I’m an artiste, my darling and the whole world is my canvas.”

  “Always knew there was something dodgy about all of you arty types,” she said roughly. “Like you’d huffed too much of your own paint.”


  “Oh, don’t worry. I’m more about cuttings and carvings to make my message.” His grin was almost charming in a way as he continued to tap. “There’s something so primitive about it. It’s delicious I must say sometimes. Nothing like it. I thrive on fear. Are you scared yet?”

  She frequently found herself wondering if inviting the families along for a part in her little enterprise had been a mistake. Like now, for instance. Here they were, she sat at the top of the room just to leave them with no illusions as to how it was going to be from now on, lest they forget that, with Domis stood behind her on one side along with the freshly cleaned and coiffed Wim Carson on the other.

  Carson had a renewed vigour about him these days. He’d spent a lot of time with Sinkins, filling in the gaps in the doctor’s knowledge as well as considerable time alone, the purposes of which were a mystery to her. If he wanted her to know, no doubt he would tell her. He hadn’t fulfilled his part of the deal yet, leading her to what she wanted but he had repeatedly assured her that he would do so once he was able to, all very apologetically. He’d insisted he wasn’t about to waste her time when it was pointless. At least he didn’t seem to fear her. She was unsure if that pleased her or not.

  Now though, he was not the issue. Rather the man stood in the centre of the room was the focus of attention, having finished his report. John Cyris looked the most pleased about his presence for the man was known only to the group at large as Silas and he was Cyris’ second-hand man in the organisation he had run for so long. She held Cyria in contempt but Cyris had proved he could be a canny operator when at the head of it. He wasn’t someone you wanted as an enemy. He’d done a lot of good for his own profits and a lot of bad for a lot of other people. She could respect that. And Silas had a legendary reputation for a sense of pragmatic ruthlessness that rivalled even that of his boss.