Star Chasers

by Viola Grace

  Chapter Three

  He’d nearly lost the last fight.

  A long, shallow wound burned across his ribs. The healing flesh pulled as he slowly, steadily, lifted a heavy cylindrical weight.

  His opponent was new. An off-worlder who’d undoubtedly been recruited much as Brock had been, lured away with promises of wealth and fame. He lacked Brock’s arm span and height but compensated with his speed. And his skills were superior. That wasn’t comforting knowledge.

  Brock had damaged him badly, catching him on the short spur of his lance and shattering his ribs with devastating blows. He’d be sidelined, but Brock had spotted several new faces down in the holding cells, where the fighters were segregated from one another for their own safety. Next week, Brock would enter the ring with a disadvantage. His wound was healing well, but he’d be tender, and that scar would be a target. The trainers had denied him healing beyond what it took to keep him alive.

  He returned the bulky weight to its rack and began a series of cardiac and agility drills, sprinting up ramps, clambering ladders and dodging between poles. When he finished, he mopped the sweat from his face, using a length of woven sheeting. He paced, allowing his heart to gradually slow, then leapt to a hanging bar, using his own weight to stretch his engorged muscles. His entire routine was familiar. He’d modeled it off the games of his youth when he and his cousins had prepared for the fields and sky farms. It relaxed him, took him back to better times.

  He dropped to the floor, landing easily. He’d trained alone again; his coach was probably diverted to the new fighters.

  It was a message. Maybe a threat.

  He should give it another hour, but strength wasn’t his issue. He needed training. Skills. He had four more weeks. And they’d doubled his matches.

  Brock stripped, showered under water as hot as he could bear, then pulled on his trousers. Barefoot and shirtless, he left the small gym and hurried down the back corridors to his quarters. Though he was the darling of the royals, they didn’t particularly want to see him outside of parties and the arena. He lived a very strange existence.

  When he reached the stone-flagged outer corridors, the cool, damp wind chilled him, so he pulled on his shirt and shoes. Movement in the garden below caught his attention, and he peered out the open, arched window, down into the dull green foliage.

  He curled his lip in disgust.

  One of the courtiers was battering a slave. He watched, his stomach churning. Then the hair on his neck stood on end: it was the crippled slave. The one with green eyes. He debated dropping down into the gardens, to put an end to the atrocity, because the woman had a rod of some sort and was ruthless.

  But he paused.

  The blows weren’t landing. Granted, a few slid off the slave’s arm or shoulder, but she was deftly turning the attack, and the courtier was too enraged to notice that she was inflicting no harm. In spite of her awkwardness, the slave moved nimbly and with control. She appeared to cower but was blocking. She was directing the energy of the woman’s rage elsewhere.

  His heart began to race. The slave was trained to fight. And she did it well. Far better than he did.

  He watched until the woman with the rod exhausted herself. She kicked at the girl’s bad leg, and the slave collapsed to the ground, seeming injured. But again, she’d avoided the full force of the blow. She remained on the ground until the woman left, and then rose awkwardly to her feet. The damage to her leg was real, and it was profound. If she’d been whole, she wouldn’t be a slave. A fighter like her would never allow it.

  She looked about the garden and used the abandoned rod to support herself as she hobbled away. So that kick had landed and done damage.

  Not certain what he intended, Brock broke into a run, heading back toward his quarters. He needed that woman. He needed her knowledge. He ran easily, weaving through the crowded corridors, ignoring the gasps and laughter as he dodged servants and guests and other staff. He needed her banked fire and her brilliant green eyes. He knew nothing about the girl, other than the fact that she could very well be his salvation. She was a warrior hiding beneath a mantle of humility.

  And no one else saw it.

  He reached his room, slapped his hand on the lock and entered, breathing hard, his gaze scanning the apartment till he spotted the contracts. Three new incarnations of the document were neatly stacked on the table. He pulled out a chair and read the newest one, his anger bubbling as he read the terms. They’d withdrawn his trainer. He was now to report to communal eating areas, rather than dining in private. It was a clear violation of his original contract, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to debate the issue.

  He found a stylus and penned notes in the margin. He proposed two amendments. He then tossed it back on the table and started for the door. He paused. Ser Comptyn oversaw the business dealings of the Gladii. If he was going to haggle, he’d far rather do it privately. He opened the rarely-used desk array and laboriously composed a note to the Ser, requesting his presence. He then closed the unit. He didn’t need a translator for verbal dealings, but the written language of the Attig was complicated. He’d need someone to review all documentation. And he recalled that the scribe he’d used in the past was now visiting a settlement on the other side of the planet.

  Convenient. And possibly serendipitous.

  Brock chose his clothes carefully and dressed. He combed and bound his unruly hair, then rolled up the sleeves on his closely cut tunic, allowing the spurs on his forearms to emerge, just slightly. He had spurs elsewhere but opted to continue concealing those. He inhaled deeply, standing tall and erect, using his full height to build on his physical presence. Even at home, he was larger and taller than most of his peers. But he hadn’t felt much different than others. Here, he was acutely aware of his size. He’d met the king on several occasions and found it amusing that the leader was insecure enough that he always greeted Brock from an elevated dais.

  There was much to communicate with the body. Pride. Superiority. Danger.

  Right now, Brock summoned all three. He knew that though the dignitaries feted and flattered him, they really thought he was a dolt. All muscle, no brain. And while he wasn’t a scholar, he was smart enough. One didn’t design and build multi-level sky farms without some knowledge of higher education. One didn’t settle on a strange planet and quickly master the language without some sort of skill. One didn’t defeat numerous enemies without killing them by default. Brock’s challengers lived, though they left the arena on litters.

  He walked to the window wishing desperately for sunlight. He generally appeared at his most intimidating in brighter lights. There was no light, and out of nowhere, he was struck by unhappiness. He wasn’t certain he could bear another month here. If they’d just let him leave, he’d gladly return half his pay. With interest.

  He laughed ironically. His fights brought in more on a nightly basis then they’d initially paid him. Now that they’d doubled his schedule, he’d be even more valuable. They’d use him until there was nothing left.

  Brock might wind up leaving the planet early after all. In a coffin.

  He heard the soft knock on the door and turned, giving the command for the guest to enter. Ser Comptyn came in, his color high, his mood bristly. His hair was iron-grey, the facial hair he wore was streaked with black. His pale eyes were cold and blue. He was past his prime, but still dangerous.

  Comptyn slapped a contract on the desk, next to the one Brock had made notations on. “You finally ready to sign? Because this stubbornness isn’t working out to your benefit.”

  “I want to go home,” Brock said. “I’ve served out my contract. I’m weary. In time, another fighter will catch the public’s interest. You don’t need me.”

  Ser Comptyn shrugged. “True. And that’s been put before the king. But he doesn’t agree. He’d like you to stay on.” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “I have some leeway with you. Will you talk?”

  “Only with a translator.” He studie
d the fight master’s gruff face. “I can read your language, but not fluently. I’d like a written translation.”

  “That will take time.” Ser Comptyn frowned. “The official scribe is journeying east. However, I can bring in Verda.”

  “Verda?” Brock asked. His skin prickled. “Can this person translate in Common as well? Written and verbal?”

  “Definitely in Common. Not sure about your tongue.” He palmed the communications patch on the table. “Find Verda. Send her to Brock Ahern’s rooms. Immediately.”

  Brock walked back to the window, thinking fast. What other conditions could he put on the contract? They wouldn’t be surprised if he made foolish requests. It was expected that the idol of so many would be spoiled and arrogant.

  The slave. He needed the slave. She had green eyes—the word for green—

  The door chimed, and he released the locks. He heard the sound of soft footfalls—uneven. The sound of someone moving with a limp.

  Verda.

  His heart raced. He turned, scanned her, looking for signs of injury. There was an abrasion on her cheek. She was garbed in long sleeves and full, loose trousers, so he couldn’t tell if she was hurt elsewhere. She looked calm on the surface, but there was apprehension in her eyes. Fear of every unknown situation and he was certainly part of the unknown. She met his gaze and ducked her head, looking down to the floor.

  The other times he’d seen her, she was always laden with books or papers or some other sort of data. She dwelled largely in the archives and library. She was a slave, but not the usual sort.

  “Verda, we need translations.” Ser Comptyn waved at the table where the contract fanned out in an unsteady stack. “Common, and,” he waved his hand toward Brock. “His language.”

  She picked up a page, not looking at either of the men. “This is already translated.”

  “I don’t trust it,” Brock said. “And I don’t read your language well enough to compare.”

  She started to gather the papers.

  “You can stay here. I need all three contracts translated. For comparison.” He cast an angry glance at Ser Comptyn.”

  “It will take some time.”

  The Ser huffed impatiently. “Do you have tasks of a more pressing nature?”

  Her cheeks darkened, and she gazed down at the floor. “No, Ser Comptyn.”

  “Then get to it. I’ll notify Ser Langham.” He looked from Brock to the girl. “Do you think this will take time?”

  “Several hours, I’m afraid. Perhaps into tomorrow. I’ll need a scribe.”

  “I’ll send a unit up.” The Ser looked at Brock, his thick arms folded over his chest. “Do you have demands?” He put up a good front, but he was anxious. His position as Ser was probably riding on Brock signing those papers.

  Brock glanced at the slave. Verda. He then looked back at Ser Comptyn. “Perhaps. Yes. I may have a request.” She glanced at him sharply, then back down at the paper. She saw the notes he’d made and glared at the page. Another slip in her servile façade.

  The Ser gave a contemptuous smile. “We’ll speak again tomorrow after I review your changes. You’re with staff tomorrow for coaching. Be prepared.”

  Brock nodded, feeling an odd relief. He shouldn’t. Being grateful for access to coaching was infuriating. Humiliating. It was frightening. But now he had hope. Once the Ser exited the room, he turned to the slave, looking at her from head to toe. She picked up the first contract and started reading.

  “Put that down.”

  She looked at him in surprise.

  “Put that down,” he repeated. “And remove your tunic.” He didn’t miss the disappointment on her face as he left the room, returning quickly with a small jar. She’d slipped off the tunic, revealing fabric bound over small breasts. He didn’t linger over her anatomy, that way led to potential exposure. Embarrassment. Because just looking at her triggered a slow burn, a dangerous arousal he’d never before experienced.

  He was no virgin, and he’d certainly taken lovers but avoided passionate entanglements within the court. He’d been offered his choice of slaves, courtiers, and even the royals, but turned them away. His liaisons had been brief, hurried, and furtive, generally among the other off-planet fighters. They all knew better than to get emotional, to fall in love. Any could die in the arena at any time. A quick fuck in the dark corners of the stadium went a long way to maintaining the need to touch and be touched. The occasional royal or aristocrat still called for his services, but the novelty had largely worn off. Celibacy wasn’t so great a challenge.

  Until now.

  He studied her lean arms, impressed at how firm they were. There was a bruise on her right shoulder, where he’d seen the rod land. He opened the lid and begin applying the balm to her bruise. She looked over her shoulder.

  “What is that?”

  He handed her the jar, watching as she sniffed.

  “Bruise balm. I make it from herbs I brought from my home.”

  She handed it back.

  “Where else were you struck?” His voice sounded too deep, too rough.

  “How did you know I was hurt?” Her voice had a pleasing pitch, slightly lower than the affected accents of other palace dwellers.

  “I was in the corridor above the garden.” He applied the balm to her forearm, over another rough looking bruise. “And I saw what you were doing.”

  She looked straight ahead. “What was I doing?”

  “Trousers, please.”

  “No.”

  Her refusal took him by surprise.

  “Yes,” he countered.

  She stood utterly still. “There are no injuries to my legs.” She was lying, but he stepped back, returning the lid to the balm and handing it to her.

  “Go to the changing room and put this on your bruises.” Interesting. She had no issues with disrobing on top but resisted baring her lower body. She didn’t appear misshapen, but her limp suggested deformity.

  She left the room and returned within minutes, the scent of the balm drifting in with her. As always, the herbal fragrance caused a sharp pang to resonate through him. It reminded him of warm days and sunny fields. His mother made the balm every year, filling jar after jar, sending them out with the field workers.

  That was his last jar.

  She turned again to the contract. “Do you want me to read these aloud?” She flinched when he took the paper from her hand. Another spark of anger burned. She’d been struck enough that her reactions were automatic.

  “No. I want to talk about the fight I just saw.”

  “We weren’t fighting.” Her voice was firm. “Ser Langham felt it appropriate to discipline me.”

  “And you blocked every blow. Otherwise, you’d be laying senseless in the garden. Most likely bleeding.”

  He paced the room, and finally stopped, gazing at nothing but the wall. “What you did down there... it was brilliant. And I need you to teach me.”

  “What?” Her face was incredulous. “I have nothing to teach you!”

  Again, she reached for the contract.

  He held it out of her reach. “I need to learn what you did. The blocking, the deflection. I’m too large to have your speed, but—”

  “You’re amazingly fast for a man your size.” The words erupted, and she looked like she’d choke on them. “I mean... uh...”

  “I have raw strength, good speed, and balance. But this past month, my opponents are better trained. Closer to my size. Soon, I will fall.”

  “All fighters sometimes lose.”

  “They mean me to lose. And if I don’t sign that—” he nodded to the contract, “—they don’t mean for me to leave alive. I have no intention of staying here, and I don’t mean to die in the process of escaping this sodden, moldy planet.”

  “You’re bluffing about the translation.” Her green eyes were keen and intelligent. She was sizing him up, not as a fighter, but as a person.

  He nodded. “I can read it just fine. Common would be easier, th
e translation is poor, but I read enough of your language to decipher most of the terms. Every week, I lose another privilege. I don’t mind. But I no longer have daily training with a coach.”

  “Not that he was serving you well. Argus is a lazy coach.” The humble trappings of the slave had fallen away. She let the papers slip to the table and studied him. “You are a tolerable fighter. You have more talent than most, which is how you’ve adapted and been able to survive, but you are correct. Your opponents are being imported and are far better trained than you are.”

  “Damn.” He was right. He didn’t want to be right. He just wanted to finish his time and go home.

  “Will you help me?” he asked.

  “Will you help me?” she countered.

  “What can I do for you?” Brock looked at her in question.

  She stared down at the floor. Over the past few minutes, her entire demeanor had changed. She looked taller. Stronger. She hadn’t been born a slave. More likely, she’d been a war captive. An enemy of some sort.

  “I had a task. It was a repellent job, but I swore to do it. By any means.” She looked at him, and he felt he knew her. She was a comrade. Someone who shared his dilemma. “You are a prisoner here.” She said it as if the realization was new. “Just as much as I am.”

  “Well.” He smiled. “Not the same, I have free access to the city. And I’m quite popular at certain parties.”

  “You can’t leave, though. I suppose you’re watched constantly.”

  “I suppose I am.” His smile faded. “Leaving won’t be as simple as completing my contract and taking a shuttle to a station.”

  “When you go, I wish to go with you.”

  “What?” Had she heard his words?

  “When you leave...” she spoke slowly, “I want to go with you.”

  “I can’t just take a slave and leave. I don’t even know if I’ll live long enough to get out of here.”

  The true peril of his situation finally settled on Brock’s shoulders. Having someone to talk to, made his plight very real and very frightening.