“Over there somewhere,” the man answered with a wave toward the side of the hall.
“Ulgeb, where are you?” Tashek called over the crowd.
A grunt came from the direction of one of the columns. “I’m here—what?”
“Get over here,” Tashek snapped irritably and waited impatiently as a corpulent man of moderate height made his way through the velveted gentry dragging a bleeding human boy by the wrist. Unperturbed by the Emperor’s waspishness, Ulgeb paused at the base of the steps and looked over at Bálok, raking him with his eyes while a twisted smile formed on his face.
“Yes, I thought you might enjoy this,” Tashek muttered and shifted his gaze back to Bálok. “My cousin, Lord of Edasich, is Grand Admiral of the destroyer fleet and will be in charge of deploying the prize for whoever wins. Curry his favor and I’m sure he’ll make it worth your while—whether you win or not,” he added with a short laugh.
Clamping down tightly on his personal revulsion, Bálok tipped his head slightly in Ulgeb’s direction. “Understood, Your Majesty,” he stated without inflection.
“Good, good,” the Emperor muttered and ascended the last few steps to the top of the dais, seating himself once more on his cushioned throne. Picking up his goblet, he took several long draws before licking his teeth and lips, all the while contemplating the Eltanin lord with avid speculation.
“The real question, Bálok, is this,” he purred in a silky voice. “What exactly would you do with a destroyer if you win?”
Since he had no intention of providing his true objectives, Bálok remained silent with his eyes lowered until he knew where Tashek’s thoughts were headed.
“What is the mighty Bálok after?” the Emperor mused. “More territory? Wealth? Power? Do you have enemies you wish to eliminate?”
“All of the above, Your Majesty,” he replied, providing a response that any nobleman in the Empire might give.
Tashek laughed low in his throat. “You’re not going to answer me, are you? Well then, I’ll just have to wait and see how you play out your hand. It should be just as stimulating as watching you fight. Make sure I’m entertained, Lord Bálok. You may go.”
With a curt bow, Bálok turned on his heel and walked toward Jimat who fell into step behind him as he plowed into the throng, pointedly ignoring the rise of voices on all sides. He could still feel the Emperor’s cloying eyes on the back of his skull and he wanted nothing more than to be gone from this whole stinking affair as quickly as possible.
He had nearly reached his guards waiting near the exit when a tall Goran nobleman in crimson velvet and heavy gold chains stepped carefully into his path. “A word, Lord Bálok?”
With an audible sigh, Bálok came to a halt and looked into the pale, watering eyes of the man in charge of all aurum production on the sequestered worlds of Alrakis. He was surprised by the emanations of fear rolling off of one of the most powerful magnates in the Empire, especially since legions of Tashek’s forces were stationed all over the Alrakis territory to protect the mandated monopoly on the addictive drug used by the entire Drahkian elite caste.
“Lord Burdek,” he acknowledged, readily taking in the man’s trepidation as he waited for an explanation.
Burdek blinked repeatedly, quite obviously addicted to other substances besides aurum. “As one of the Emperor’s favorites, you stand a good chance of winning the games,” he began in hushed tones. “I need to know if I’ve ever offended you in any way.”
Baffled by the odd query, Bálok quietly replied, “I have no quarrel with you, Burdek.”
“Excellent,” the nervous lord declared. “Then I have a proposition to discuss with you. I—”
Burdek’s gaze shifted to a point somewhere behind Bálok just as Majah’s oily voice shouted above the noise of the room. “Lord Bálok!”
The tremors of fear from Burdek spiked sharply. “Another time—I’ll find you,” he hissed and turned to disappear quickly into the crowd.
Reluctantly, Bálok remained where he was without turning around. To his right, Jimat stood loose and ready, watching the approach of the Goran lord and his bodyguards through narrowed lids.
Majah moved deliberately around Bálok’s left side as the nearest bystanders backed away. At the slight touch of fingers grazing across his bare bicep, Bálok’s hand shot up to snare Majah’s wrist, holding it fast as he locked his eyes coldly onto the Goran’s rough features.
“So you do have your limits,” Majah laughed, waiting patiently until Bálok released his grip. “Good to know,” he preened, stepping back a pace and cocking his head to one side. He glanced pointedly at his hand and rubbed his thumb over his fingertips before looking back up. “Apparently you don’t like men touching you—too bad for poor Ulgeb. I’ve heard you have an insatiable taste for women,” he sneered derisively. “I hope they’ve provided a plentiful supply in your quarters. Try the Sirian females—they’re particularly delicious, especially the young ones.”
At Bálok’s impassive silence, Majah’s eye ridges rose in mock surprise. “Ah, that’s right, Ka’s don’t share our appetite for consuming flesh—a pity. Humans are quite delectable, and Ka flesh is so … biting,” he taunted with a twisted smile as laughter fluttered through the Goran onlookers. “You Ka’s prefer the purity of terror—slice and dice, or hunt them down and siphon it off. Do you even digest anything anymore? By the look of you, you feed well, Bálok,” he gibed loudly.
“I don’t have time for this,” Bálok stated curtly and took a step toward the exit, but Majah planted a heavy boot in front of him to block his way and leaned in menacingly close, speaking in low, clipped tones for his hearing alone.
“Don’t cross me, Bálok. My uncle is impressed with you, but it’ll take more than brawn and a pretty form to beat me. I take down whom I want, when I want. That destroyer is mine.” With an odd jerk of his head, Majah turned brusquely and stalked off through the ocean of bodies.
Bálok stood still for several moments to get a firm grip on his annoyance. Before he started for the door, the elusive watcher found him again, but this time he didn’t bother to scan for the invasive set of eyes.
“Let’s get out of here, Jimat. I need a bath.”
Bálok waited in the wide hallway leading out onto the floor of the enormous imperial arena. Clad in nothing but his gold armbands, he leaned against the cold stone wall until his group was called to be presented to Tashek in front of thousands of spectators who had come to watch the Emperor’s games. The tournament officials who approached him when he arrived had specifically requested that he appear with the last group in order to “stir the excitement of the crowds.”
The first party of elite Goran fighters led by Bardur and Majah paraded out under blaring fanfare. A second group followed soon after, headed by Mardukan, Lord of the Orion Territories, and Rall of Edasich, Ulgeb’s son and commander of one of the moon destroyers. Daga stood near the arena entrance waiting for his cue to lead the first of the Ka fighters making up the overwhelming majority in the lists out for presentation.
Bálok quietly surveyed the other contestants in the hallway. Just behind Daga’s party stood Nakkár, the young irritant who had taken over the entire Grumium system since his days of dogging Bálok’s freighters. On the other side of the hall, Ushak of Kovara spoke in low tones with two other tall noblemen, Shahr’s eldest son Zan and Tivas, another leader in the Altain Collective, both outstanding fighters Bálok had previously encountered in tournament competition. There was still no sign of Izar or anyone else from Rastaban which was strange, but probably just as well since it could prove quite hazardous to Izar’s health to be anywhere near Tashek or his cronies.
While he listened for his call, his eyes landed again and again on a nobleman standing with his guards a short distance away—Ukúr, Lord of Gianfar, a solidly built Drahk with dark purplish skin and white-tipped crest. He had no specific issue with Ukúr, but his brother Eo was another matter. Bálok doubted Ukúr had the slightest idea wha
t his younger brother had done so many years ago in a raid on a rival house—but he knew and Eo knew the terrible things that had happened that day, forging a blood tie between them for which he would make Eo pay. He could have sent assassins after the cur eons ago, or staged an attack on Gianfar’s homeworld, but he wanted—he needed—to feel Eo’s blood flow between his own fingers, see the light go out of those hated eyes when he snuffed out Eo’s life. He had hoped to meet his enemy here in the ring where at long last he would be able to slice him to pieces, but since Ukúr had appeared to represent their house, then, at the very least, he was certain that Eo was out there right now, in the arena, within his reach, breathing the same air—and he would find a way to go after the bastard tonight after the sun went down.
“Lord Bálok,” Jimat said softly beside him, “it’s time.”
He blinked and realized that Ukúr was no longer standing where he had seen him moments before. In fact, all of the other fighters had already walked out into the arena and an official was madly waving him forward.
“We’ll be waiting for you on the sidelines, Lord,” Jimat added as the voices in the arena escalated in pitch.
With a nod, Bálok pushed off of the wall and walked toward the noise at the end of the hall. He paused when he reached the edge of the floor and looked up into the wide expanse of the arena which was filled to capacity with more than a hundred and fifty thousand spectators from the Goran and Ka upper crust. The instant he appeared, a thunderous roar rose to the rafters. He stepped out to the pounding of deep drums and pealing trumpets, and walked unhurriedly into the center of the floor to join the last group of fighters waiting to be presented to the Emperor.
Tashek was seated in an elaborate chair surrounded by scores of relatives and members of his court in a special walled-off box a dozen rows above the floor. Ulgeb’s hulk slouched lazily beside him and two rows above sat Burdek who nodded imperceptibly when Bálok’s eyes touched briefly on his. In a heavily guarded section just above the Emperor’s box he spotted Shim’s still figure among the rest of the hostages from the noble houses represented in the games. Fortuitously, Commander Zirik and the large group of his Eltanin captains and officers were seated immediately to the right of the hostage section, a happenstance no doubt Jimat and a sizable bribe were responsible for.
When his name was called, he stepped forward, made his obligatory bow to the Emperor, and turned as his group was directed to step back from the center. Scanning the arena behind him, he spotted Tirgal’s broad form standing at the rail directly opposite the Emperor in the first row of spectators just above the benches on the floor reserved for fighters and their bodyguards. To the left of Tirgal in the middle of an entire section of khaki-clad Ka officers, his eyes easily picked out the thick neck and jaw of grayish brown-skinned Shahr of Altais.
Moving on across the ocean of faces, Bálok searched impatiently until he landed on a group in the lower section near the far end of the arena wearing the maroon of Ukúr’s house—and locked onto the cruel dark gaze of Eo. The nobleman stood with his arms crossed, his dark purple head cocked insolently to one side, watching him with a brooding grimace. His right eyelid was pulled taut, marred by heavy scars across his eye ridge and cheek which marked the path of Tiga’s claws when she had defended her son and incited his bloody wrath.
A violent jolt seized Bálok’s solar plexus and for a brief moment, he was back in that room, drenched in blood and shaking with shock. Through a supreme act of will, he reeled his mind back to the present and ruthlessly squelched his body’s reaction, narrowing his eyes in silent signal to his adversary that he marked his presence and would be coming after him.
The heavy drums below the Emperor’s box sounded a rolling sequence, indicating the last of the fighters had been brought out and formal introductions were finished. Bálok pulled his gaze away from Eo when an angry rumble surged around the arena, drowning out the drums with boos and hisses over the glaring omission of a fighter from Rastaban. Raised fists and shouts for Izar undulated through the wide sections of Ka spectators while Tashek scowled, visibly antagonized by the disruptive display. With a terse gesture, he ordered the red-coated Goran standing at the front of the Emperor’s box to continue on with the proceedings.
The announcer held up his arms while a horn blasted several times, calling for silence. After the jeering noise settled to an acceptable level, the Goran’s amplified voice rang through the arena.
“The Emperor’s games will commence as soon as the floor has been cleared and prepared. The rules are as follows: three blooded strikes against an opponent within the bounds of the ring wins a match. Kills in the ring will be rewarded with fifty thousand gold weights.”
A tempestuous uproar broke through the spectators and competitors spread out across the arena floor, this time with shouts of excitement and approval. Bálok stood placidly and watched the fighters around him yell and strut, taking careful note of which opponents crowed the loudest or appeared fanatically hungry. A kill was not uncommon in regular tournament competition—it demonstrated a fighter’s exceptional skill and was widely accepted, even praised, as his own track record had proven. But the exorbitant amount the Emperor was offering for kills would drive the bloodlust in the ring and in the spectators to frenzied heights. Of course, that was Tashek’s aim since he was easily the most bloodthirsty pissant in the arena.
The announcer raised his hand for silence so he could continue.
“Opponents will be randomly paired by the Emperor’s officials. For today’s competition, the twenty fighters with the most wins after five rounds will move on to the semi-finals with play-off rounds held as needed. Tomorrow, the top four competitors after three rounds will become finalists. And on the last day, the champion of the final match—” he paused dramatically, sending his gaze across the contestants on the floor, “—will be given the use of an imperial dish destroyer for one full Darbanian year.”
Shouting filled the stadium once again. Bálok lifted his gaze to see Tashek grinning in satisfaction as he watched the leaders of his empire clamor after the opportunity to wipe each other out. There was something deeply amiss about the whole spectacle, and when Bálok glanced over his shoulder at Tirgal, he found the Aldhiban leader standing broodingly still, his cool gray eyes shifting to meet his in silent query.
The distant sound of weapon fire outside the arena cut through the ruckus in the stands. A commotion in the wide tunnel leading out to the landing field drew the crowd’s attention to the far end of the arena where the clatter of boots heralded the approach of an armed party. From the shadows of the tunnel, a lone, deep green-skinned figure in black leather and shining gold armbands sauntered out into the light, his elegant crest falling loosely between his shoulder blades. A shapely Ka female in a cream gown and ornate golden necklace walked several paces behind, followed by dozens of Ka soldiers in black who came to a halt just inside the entrance. Swells of riotous whistling and catcalls broke loose as the Lord of Rastaban strutted languorously through the fighters on the floor toward the center of the arena, his massive height and build a solid match to Bálok’s.
Izar’s chartreuse green eyes landed on Bálok with a piercing gleam as he approached and passed in front of him. As the woman came close, Bálok’s breath caught in his chest. She was extremely beautiful—pale green skin as fine as sand, softly flowing crest, full breasts, curvaceous hips, and a sharp intelligence in her dark amber eyes that he hadn’t seen … since Tiga. He rarely noticed females of any race beyond the scope of his demanding sexual appetite, but this one—this one had the mark of something exceptional. She glanced at him once, branding him with a penetrating look before moving past him to keep up her pace with Izar’s tall form.
Coming to a halt in the middle of the Goran fighters just below the Emperor’s box, the Rastabanian leader raised his head defiantly toward Tashek for several seconds before lowering his gaze in a show of respect. The woman in cream stopped several paces behind and kept her head defer
entially bent.
“Izar,” Tashek rasped, his whitish features drawn in a scowl of contempt. It was clear he was furious that the audacious nobleman had somehow slipped through the tight layers of imperial security to blast his way into the games, but with such rampant support running through the thousands of Ka’s present, he couldn’t move openly against him without risking a widespread eruption.
“Your Majesty,” Izar called out in a clear voice, loud enough to carry across the stadium over the hum of the spectators. “I respectfully request permission to represent Rastaban in your illustrious tournament.”
The shouts exploded, pressing for Izar’s inclusion, but just as insistent were many outraged yells from Goran throats demanding that the obstreperous lord be kept out of the competition. From a few paces away, Majah swaggered toward Izar with a disdainful sneer plastered across his face. Laughing loudly, he shouted up at Tashek, “Let the bastard fight, Uncle! I’ll gut him for you!” Turning back to see Rall and Bardur nodding their agreement, he shook his fist in the air, goading the rest of the Goran fighters until a good number of them joined his challenge to take Izar on.
Tashek’s frown gradually shifted into a warped smile as he contemplated the tall Rastabanian lord as well as his Goran elite, jeering and begging for Izar’s blood. No doubt seeing an open opportunity to be rid of the biggest thorn in his side once and for all, he held up his bony hand for silence. “You may fight,” he declared as uproarious shouting rolled through the arena. Majah hooted, circling once around Izar spitting venomous words before prancing back to his place next to Bardur with eager nods and gestures.
“And your hostage?” Tashek inquired when the noise settled.
Izar took a step to the side, indicating the woman behind him with a sweep of his arm. “My sister-wife Saryn will serve for my house.”
Tashek’s lip curled in a grimace. “I have no use for a female. Don’t you have any heirs, Rastaban?”
To Steal a Moon Page 3
