The Aeolian Master Book One Revival

by John Northern

  *

  Hurd watched in awe of the woman and the three men. Never before had a runner excelled as these four had today. It was the first time in the history of the run that a Toral had been slain with a sword, or, as far as he knew, in the history of Ar. Together these four warriors had gone through six zones and a good deal into the seventh. Two or three of them could have made it to the last door, which, of course, would not have opened to freedom, but rather a squad of patrollers would have been ready to take them to a secret cell in the city prison—at least it would be better than death in the pits.

  He frowned. He stroked his mustache solemnly. It was terrible that these four incredible athletes had to die. Well, maybe not Ben—the scoundrel that he was. But the other three, if only they had been on his side. They would have made great warriors in his army. And the fight they put up, and there was even romance for the viewers. This was the greatest day the run had ever seen. Probably no one would ever do better. And now the end was about to come.

  It occurred to Hurd if he could stop it, he would give them an easy job in the pits, keep them alive until they could see that his rule was right for the people, but it was too late, the other Toral were already speeding toward their prey.

  Ben was gripping his short sword—his other one was buried in the lead Toral’s chest. Gaal was standing beside Ben waving his sword back and forth—a city patroller—how could he have become disloyal? Dahms ran over and was holding Sam's hand. Hurd knew there were only a few seconds left.

  And then he saw something dangling in front of the screen. For a moment he was puzzled. “What . . . ?” he started to say.

  Then he realized what it was and jumped out of his seat. "Where the hell did that rope come from!?" he yelled.

  Of course, none of the councilmen answered.

  "The rebels have infiltrated the stadium!" He was in a fit of rage.

  *