To Steal a Moon

by Erin MacMichael

  “Lord Bálok, the corridor to your left leads to a secure underground passage into the arena. Down toward the right past several suites is the entrance to a large courtyard which borders a wide hallway leading into the central palace. If you continue straight down this corridor, you will come to a hallway leading out to the hunting grounds.”

  The man turned to hand a small device to Jimat. “You may reprogram the security codes for your suite to your own requirements. This way,” he motioned, leading Bálok through the door into a comfortably appointed lounging area. Six small female reptilian servants in plain uniforms stood to the side with heads lowered.

  “The front chambers off of this lounge will serve your personal guard. Those at the rear are for your private use, Lord.” Stepping through a door at the back of the lounge, Bálok was shown into a sumptuous set of open rooms which surrounded a high-walled garden with a long bathing pool.

  The emissary walked to a locked side room and brought out a dozen scantily clad female Ka Drahk, human, and feline adults and girls to stand in a line with downcast eyes for the nobleman’s inspection. “For your pleasure, consumption, or anything else you may desire, Lord. If you prefer males, or any other species—”

  Bálok glanced at the trembling figures. “These will do,” he acknowledged with a curt nod before he turned and walked back into the front room. Behind him, the emissary herded the females back into the locked chamber before he reappeared and headed for the outer door where he paused with a bowed head.

  “The Emperor requires your attendance this evening in the primary throne room, Lord Bálok. The schedule for the games and nightly pleasures is included on the device with the security codes. Is there anything else I can do for you or your men?”

  “No, that will be all.”

  As soon as the door latched, Bálok nodded to Jimat. With silent hand signals, the captain and his officers moved through the suite, scouring every inch of the rooms for hidden entrances, traps, listening devices, cameras, or any other possible security threat. After disabling several hidden sensors and transmitters, one of the officers set up a small, localized scanner and disruption device while the rest of the guardsmen busied themselves with the bags and gear.

  “All clear, Lord,” Jimat confirmed with a single nod.

  “Good. All of you, be ready to accompany me to the Emperor’s ‘festivities’ in four hours,” Bálok ordered as he withdrew to his private chambers. Closing the door and leaning back heavily against it, he let out a slow, even breath, working to dispel the cloud of foreboding that hovered at the edge of his awareness. The next three days of fighting and pandering to the Emperor would sorely test his wits as well as his patience, but he felt reasonably certain that as long as he kept a level head, he ought to be able to dance around the pitfalls of Tashek’s odious extravaganza, find and kill his nemesis, and get them all out of this hive of hornets alive.

  Shaking off his pensive thoughts, he turned his attention to his personal rituals in order to prepare himself for the evening’s dramatics. After thoroughly sating himself with the most voluptuous of the females provided, he soaked in the bathing pool and took a long, drenching shower, followed by a languid doze under the heat lamps on the high recliner in the bedchamber.

  When he awoke, he dressed and rearmed before opening a small vial of aurum, inhaling a carefully measured dose of the expensive powdered gold in order to keep his flesh in peak receptivity over the next several days. The opportunities to feed off of spikes of fear and bloodlust in the arena would be plentiful and he would need all the sustenance he could garner to keep his edge under the harsh demands of the ring.

  Reemerging from his quarters, he strode through the outer chamber issuing orders to two of the guards who would remain behind on duty in the suite. “Answer the door to no one and have the servants clean my chambers while I’m out.” Jimat and the seven other guards joined him in the corridor and fell into step behind him as he headed for the main palace. The halls were teeming with well-dressed noblemen and armed escorts as well as servants and imperial soldiers who gave the towering Eltanin lord and his guard a wide berth. The tingling in Bálok’s sensitized skin told him the level of tension in the air was already running dangerously high.

  The party turned the corner into the open courtyard just as a group of eight bulky figures in billowing navy blue capes and jackets entered the far side from the direction of the palace. Bálok recognized the charcoal gray skin and elaborate crest of Tirgal, ruler of the Aldhiba, Aldhibain, and Dziban systems whose clans carried traces of old Sirian wolf blood. Tirgal’s bearing was guarded, but he adjusted his path to approach Bálok as soon as he saw him.

  The nobleman greeted him with a slight nod as he brought his party to a halt in the middle of the courtyard. “Lord Bálok.”

  “Lord Tirgal,” Bálok acknowledged. His business dealings with the Aldhiban leader had always been direct and seamless, but he kept his mask of reserve in place while he gauged the man’s intent.

  “You fight in the ring tomorrow,” Tirgal stated. “Your formidable reputation precedes you, Bálok.”

  “I’m here,” he answered noncommittally.

  “The winner of this tournament will walk away with a decided edge over adversaries.”

  “All the more reason to make sure the edge stays out of the wrong hands,” Bálok replied coolly.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Tirgal nodded, apparently satisfied with Bálok’s answer. “The Emperor passes out weapons of mass destruction as if they were toys,” he declared with barely restrained contempt. “If one of his twisted cronies wins the destroyer, the rest of us might as well start counting our days.”

  “I have no intention of allowing that to happen.”

  Tirgal’s light gray eyes appraised him carefully for several moments. “Have you seen Izar?”

  Bálok shook his head. “Not yet,” he replied, wondering if there was something significant behind Tirgal’s reference to the powerful Lord of Rastaban whose house was easily the largest and most extensively connected of all the Ka houses within the Empire. Izar’s standing as a top fighter was widely known, making him the most likely candidate to represent his vast house, but it was also common knowledge that Tashek despised him and considered him a dangerous threat to his power.

  “The Emperor may have kept him out on purpose,” Tirgal muttered, letting out a long, disgruntled breath before waving a hand toward the man next to him. “Daga, my grandson, will stand for our clans. He’s a skilled fighter and strong leader—and a man worthy of staying alive,” he finished pointedly.

  Bálok shifted his yellow eyes to the younger man who was regarding him with avid interest. “Daga,” he acknowledged, nodding briefly.

  The sound of a factious voice broke across the courtyard from the palace hallway. A tall Ka Drahk with salmon skin flanked by four guardsmen had come to a halt as a scrawny, foppishly dressed Goran walked past them, laughing mockingly. The crests of the Ka party bristled with indignation as the smaller man hurled barbed words in their direction. Two of the bodyguards growled and lurched toward the sneering Goran, but the nobleman held up a hand to stay them as a group of palace guards rushed forward to surround the dandy.

  “Lom,” Tirgal snarled in a low voice, “one of Tashek’s great-grandsons and about as stable as his grandsire.”

  “And the Ka?” Bálok inquired softly.

  “Ushak, head of a small but strong house that holds the single world around Kovara. I believe he joined the Altain Collective who answer to Shahr of Altais.”

  Bálok nodded at the mention of the unsanctioned group of smaller houses sprinkled throughout Draco that Shahr had gathered under his wing. “Fighter?”

  “Yes, a damned good one. He’ll be in the games with you tomorrow.”

  The Ka lord walked silently away down the hall with his men while Lom screeched insults at them long after the group had disappeared from sight. The Goran prince sniffed several times and blinked rapidly, his glazed eyes
not quite focused on anything around him as he was subtly nudged into motion by the purple-clad soldiers in the direction of the palace.

  Tirgal returned his gaze to Bálok. “So it begins,” he murmured. “Are you headed for the throne room?”

  At Bálok’s nod, the Aldhiban lord shook his head with a weary sigh. “Watch your back, Bálok. Make sure you know who’s behind you.” As Tirgal moved away, Daga tipped his head and followed his grandfather and guards on through the courtyard toward their private quarters.

  Bálok exchanged a long look with Jimat and started off toward the wide hallway, turning and taking it all the way into the heart of the palace. When they reached the primary artery running across the front of the building, they followed the stream of richly dressed gentry and military personnel swarming down the marble corridor into a high-ceilinged vestibule which opened onto Tashek’s court. Having little patience for crowds or inane conversation, Bálok stalked directly through the milling throng toward the high, open double doors of the throne room, forcing anyone in front of him to step aside to avoid an encounter with the forbidding lord.

  Bálok paused at the doors and glanced over his shoulder at Jimat whose eyes clouded with confusion and a touch of apprehension. A high corridor leading off to the left was apparently the only way to gain entry into the throne room within.

  “It’s a maze,” Bálok commented dryly.

  “For security or entertainment?” Jimat wondered aloud as he scanned the crowded passage in front of them.

  “Both. I was here eons ago with my father, but I’m sure the pattern has been altered many times since then. Stay sharp.”

  Bálok headed into the corridor, winding his way around walls and people until he reached the first of what he knew would be many rooms along the route offering every distraction imaginable—wine, a wide assortment of drugs, painted courtesans, pens of non-reptilian children. Along the walls and in the dimly lit side chambers were heated recliners and tables, covered with copulating pairs or groups, or utilized by those feeding on live flesh. Naked slaves of all ages from many races moved through the crowds offering trays of consumables or sexual pleasure to each of the Emperor’s guests, while plain-clothed servants quietly carried away the bodies or remains of any who had been dismembered or discarded.

  The noise and debauchery of the feasting nobles increased dramatically the further they traveled—and so did the stench. Bálok avoided eye contact with anyone who approached him, ignoring solicitations or offerings as he moved methodically through the maze. Only once did an obstreperous pair of hopped-up Gorans threaten to get close to him, but two quick, well-aimed jabs from Jimat dropped both men unconscious to the floor.

  In the last of the feasting rooms, Bálok’s eyes landed on a familiar figure coming out of one of the back rooms zipping up his pants. At a quick signal, two of his men headed off to round up the minor lord while Bálok moved on into the crowded corridor to wait. Seconds later, the quivering Ka nobleman appeared in front of him, flanked by the Eltanin guards.

  Bálok peered down at the man for several long moments and soaked up his fear before addressing him. “Erchek,” he began smoothly. “How are the battles with your cousin progressing?”

  “Uh, very well, Lord Bálok. Your warships are superb! The insurgence has nearly been eradicated,” the man stammered, eager to please the looming Eltanin lord.

  Bálok knew quite the opposite was true since he was also supplying Erchek’s cousin with ships. “Good. If you ever want any more of my stock, Erchek, I strongly suggest that you are not late with your payments.” It was widely known that Bálok had little tolerance for deviations from business agreements and backed up his interests with swift recourse.

  The nobleman nodded, his anxious trembling rising dramatically. “Yes, Lord Bálok, of course.”

  “Do you have a fighter in the games?” he asked with veiled courtesy.

  “My nephew—he’s very good, but I’m sure he’ll be no threat to you, Lord Bálok!”

  “Excellent—see that he isn’t. I’m sure we’ll do business again, Erchek.”

  “Yes, indeed, Lord Bálok!” As the nobleman bowed deeply in front of him, Bálok turned away and walked on through the corridor, confident that he now had one less opponent to bog him down in the games.

  Crossing the threshold into the throne room, Bálok took one look at the dense throng of velveted noblemen and turned to his guardsmen. “Jimat, come with me. The rest of you wait back here along the wall until I’m finished.” Moving forward past a party on its way out, he stepped quickly aside into the shadow of a marble column to scan the sea of faces. The vast chamber was packed with courtiers and the highest ranking Goran officials within Tashek’s extensive house, each draped with opulent clothing and enough jewels to finance a small invasion.

  To his left a short distance from where he stood, the abrasive voice of Majah, grand-nephew of Tashek and Lord of the Tyl binary system, rose above the group clustered around him. Easily the most vicious of the Goran royalty, Majah’s history of wiping out entire houses on the smallest whim made him dangerous to anyone who displeased him, and by the sound of it, he was busy cementing that reputation with anyone who would listen.

  Several Ka nobles Bálok recognized were scattered throughout the room, standing in clusters with their bodyguards, casting furtive looks at rivals or sizing up potential opponents. Most he’d had business dealings with and some he wished to avoid altogether. He searched carefully for the face of one man in particular, but the distinctive features of his bitter enemy were nowhere to be found.

  Bálok stifled a shudder as the unmistakable sensation of being watched himself ran up his spine. With a subtle hand gesture, he signaled Jimat to be on alert and sent his eyes darting into the shadows on the outskirts of the room, but as quickly as it had come, the sensation disappeared. With a grimace of exasperation, he moved out into the crowd in order to fulfill his command appearance before the Emperor so he could leave and return to his quarters. From the instant he became visible, the sound of Majah’s braying followed and paced him as he made his way toward the wide, stepped dais at the back of the lofty central aisle.

  The Emperor’s beady gray eyes locked onto him with a feverish gleam long before he made it to the front. Tashek was draped over his golden throne, clothed in a richly tailored dark purple dress coat splattered with dried blood. Stray pieces of flesh littered the dais around the base of the throne and his bejeweled hand clutched a goblet containing what was most certainly not wine. Not a large man, Tashek’s stubby horns and coarsely pebbled skin were grayish white, marking him as the highest of the elite Gorans—the last of an inbred, dying breed of depraved, misogynist blood drinkers. Bálok noted with inward surprise that the Drahk who had ruled them all for the past three thousand Darbanian years was starting to age, his tissue apparently unable to fight off decrepitude, in spite of the high amount of aurum in his system.

  With a raise of his hand, Bálok signaled for Jimat to wait at the front of the crowd while he stepped forward into the empty space at the foot of the steps below the dais. A buzz went through the Drahks in the immediate vicinity as he knelt on one knee, bowed his crested head, and waited to be acknowledged. Tashek sat and watched him in silence for several moments.

  “It’s been a long time, Bálok.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Your father provided me with many fine ships. Too bad he had such a hot temper and got himself blown to bits,” the Emperor scoffed. “I hear you have a far more level head than your father and two brothers.”

  “I’m still alive, Your Majesty.”

  “Yes, indeed, Bálok, but you have no wife and only one heir—very precarious for such a powerful house. Let’s hope nothing happens to your son while you’re here. It would be most disastrous for your line.”

  Bálok chafed inwardly at the open taunt, but he prudently swallowed his pride and fed Tashek what he wanted to hear. “I’m here to please you, Your Majesty.”
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br />   “Indeed,” Tashek hissed with an audible exhale of breath. The Emperor’s clothing rustled as he rose, set his goblet aside, and walked forward to the edge of the dais.

  “I also hear that you are quite the bloody beast in the ring, Bálok,” he said with a quavering voice as he began a slow descent of the steps. “Perhaps we will be fortunate enough to witness a demonstration of your highly lauded rending abilities—that is, if anyone besides me is foolish enough to goad you,” he quipped mockingly as laughter fluttered through the bystanders. He paused halfway down the steps regarding his kneeling subject. “You may rise. I want to look at you.”

  Bálok came to his feet and stood with his arms loose, his boots shoulder-width apart. He kept his eyes lowered as the Emperor descended the rest of the way down to the floor for a leisurely perusal of his muscular form.

  “Mmmm, prime physique … quite a feast for the eyes,” Tashek murmured silkily as he circled, inspecting every inch of the Eltanin lord with calculated appreciation. “And so controlled. I wonder—what would it take to break the great Bálok’s infamous composure?” he wheedled, deliberately grazing his fingertips down Bálok’s chest and stomach as he came to a stop in front of him.

  “If you’re as skilled as you are well-formed, any man in the ring will have a difficult time standing up to you. Majah!” he screeched loudly without taking his eyes from Bálok. “Do you see this? You have your work cut out for you if you want that destroyer,” he shouted, laughing maliciously as he turned and walked up several steps. “And so will Bardur, my great-grandson who will fight for my house,” he said with a casual wave at a brawny man standing with a cluster of other Gorans at the far side of the steps.

  “As for you, Bálok,” he mused, turning around to peer down at him again from a higher position on the steps, “if you win my tournament, you’ll get to know my cousin Ulgeb quite well. Rall, where’s your father?” he asked a burly man with a haughty expression near the front of the courtiers to Bálok’s left.