The Hunter on Arena (11 page)

For seven days they toiled in the arena and on the eighth day they rested, confined to their cells for the entire day and
night. But even though they welcomed the respite, there was little or no rest, for on that eighth day the games were held.

Even though they themselves were far below ground and a fair distance from the gaming area, they had no difficulty hearing
the musical fanfare that preceded each match or the roars and screams of the crowd. And even more ominously, the hideous shrieks
and sudden silences.

There was little talk on the eighth day, the captives
silent, wrapped in their own unhappy thoughts. Nor did they respond to the guards’ cruel banter and had little appetite for
their evening rations.

As game day drew to an end, the crimson light streaming through the high windows staining them all the color of fresh blood,
a single, drawn-out death cry pierced the air and hung there until it was suddenly choked off, all the more horrifying for
its abrupt end. A heavy silence fell upon the dungeon and the captives eyed each other nervously. Their silence was broken
by one of the guards, a one-eyed monster noted for his penchant for cruelty. He raised his scarred face to the bloody light
as though savoring the echoes of that terrible cry, then looked at them with his single, glittering eye.

“Best start saying your prayers. It’s your turn next.”

His words brought instant consternation to the inhabitants of the cell. Some spoke bravely, boldly issuing challenges and
admonishing their unknown competitors to bolster their own courage. A few wept, but most held their tongues, retreating into
their thoughts, pondering the fragility of their lives and perhaps thinking of those they had left behind.

These thoughts were never far from Braldt’s mind. He himself, while somewhat concerned about the prospect of the games, welcomed
the opportunity for action and the possibility of learning the answers to the questions that troubled him most. Those questions
and thoughts were always at the back of his mind, worrying away at his heart. His concern was not so much for himself but
the need to know what had happened to the others in his absence.

Randi had proved herself to be a loyal companion and her combat skills were impressive. She had also indicated in subtle ways
that she would not be adverse to a closer relationship. Braldt appreciated her handsome features and her quick wit, and was
attracted by her lithe, trim body, but in the end he always retreated, for she was not Keri.

The memory of Keri filled his thoughts, waking and sleeping, and he worried about what had become of her. Did she think about
him, too? Did she believe him to be dead? Would she forget him in time? These thoughts and others equally disturbing and unanswerable
chased themselves round and round in his head as he lay waiting for sleep to come night after tormented night.

Batta Flor and Beast shared his thoughts, too, as well as concern for Auslic and Cam, his jealous and ambition-torn brother.
What had become of them and how had his disappearance affected their lives? He would have given anything to know. If the Masters
had told the truth, victory would earn him the answer to one of his questions. Braldt was not accustomed to taking lives except
to protect his own, but if deathdealing were the cost of learning what had happened to those he loved, he had no choice but
to steel himself for the task.

There were not many of them, all things considered,
especially when one balanced the dangers and the risks involved, as well as the overwhelming numbers opposing them. But they
represented some of their best and brightest minds, and they were determined to set right the wrong that was being done. The
stakes were far larger than the cost of their lives.

To look at them was like looking into a multifaceted glass that reflected multiple images of the same object. They were identical
in all but the most minor of details. All were tall, men and women alike standing a hand’s width over six feet, slender and
willowy of build, with broad shoulders and narrow hips and waists. Their eyes were a bright, clear shade of cerulean blue,
their cheekbones high, prominent, and slanted upward. Their hair was such a light shade of silvery blond as to nearly disappear
in strong light. And while their eyes spoke of great intellect, their bodies spoke eloquently in their fragile delicacy of
generation after generation of line breeding.

“Are you sure there can be no doubt?” a woman murmured, her long fingers twisting nervously in her lap. “After all, there
are so many different permutations
among them, perhaps he just looks… an accident, you know….”

“No, Lomi, there is no mistake, no accident. He is one of us,” Erte said gently.

“But how could he have survived in such a place after all these years?” asked another woman.

“More importantly, how could they have dared to bring him back?” stammered a third. “Can they be so reckless, so bold? Do
they truly believe themselves to be above the law? Surely they realize the risk?”

“Yes, I think they do consider themselves above the law,” the man said reflectively, pondering the woman’s questions. “They
certainly do not take us seriously, we have had ample evidence of that. But what do they have at risk? They have escaped detection
for so long the risk is minimal, and unless we do something to help him, he will surely die. It’s only a matter of time. No
one can hold out forever in the ring. And once he is dead, they will feed his body to the beasts, and the risk, what little
there was, will cease to exist.”

“But what can we do?” asked one of the men as he fidgeted and rearranged the green gemstone on his shoulder which held his
body cloth secure. “If what you say is true, this one is kin to me, the son of my sister, and I, more than any of you, have
to try to save him. But we are so few; even if we were to attempt such a thing, how could we do it?

“Just think of the danger involved, not only from those of our own kind, but the gamers. How do we know what he has become
over the years? What if he does not
know who or what he is? Even worse, what if he hates us, blames us for deserting him?”

“What are you saying, Jorund? Are you saying that we should leave him where he is, let him take his chances in the ring?”
challenged the first woman, her fingers twined stiffly among themselves.

“No,” Jorund said heavily. “For the memory of my sister, if for no other reason, we must help him and pray that his heritage
has sustained him on that barbaric planet. But by the stars, I pray that we are right.”

“Pray to the stars all you wish, Jorund. Who knows, it may even help,” Erte said dryly. “But I think it will be more useful
to help us think of a plan that will get the job done.”

There was an awkward silence as the two men stared at one another, then a woman cleared her throat and spoke. “Look here,
what about this tunnel here…” The tension broken, there was a sudden babble of voices as the small group gathered around the
woman and offered up their thoughts for consideration.

This day was different. They could feel it in the air, a sort of nervous tension that tingled along the skin and bristled
hair in anticipation. Nothing was said, no sign was given, but everyone could feel it.

Braldt sipped his hot brew, forcing himself to swallow the steaming liquid. He knew he would need the energy for whatever
was to come, but it was impossible to eat. The few bites he swallowed lay like lumps of stone in his belly and he knew that
he would be sick if he forced himself further. He shoved his plate away and
looked out across the vast hall, already half obscured by a miasma of steam from the kitchen fires and the rising stink of
unwashed bodies.

The others shared his apprehension. All around him was the flash of frightened eyes and the babble of tongues loosened by
terror. He could smell the fear on them, a brassy, metallic, sour stink. There had been no word, and yet they knew.

The guards broke the fearful reverie, moving in from the edges of the room and herding them out into the arena even though
few among them had finished their meals. Utensils, half-filled bowls, and cups still trailing their pennants of steam, remained
at their places, and Braldt could not help but wonder as he was driven toward the arena at spear point, how many of those
cups would be lifted at the end of the day.

The suns had just crested the edge of the red stone walls and were already beating down full force on the sands of the arena
though the last of the night’s chill still hovered above the ground.

Without words, the guards divided up the groups and passed out their weapons. The guards seemed especially watchful and their
numbers were nearly doubled, standing in pairs around the edge of the arena with swords drawn and shields raised.

When the last of the groups were armed, a trio of men appeared, framed by the narrow arches of the stone tiers. They were
flanked by six hard ones, but it was the men themselves who earned Braldt’s attention. He stared at them in disbelief. Despite
the distance separating them, he could see quite clearly that they were so like
him as to be mirror images! They were as tall as he, and as blond, and their bone structure was the same. He was not able
to see their eyes but somehow knew without a doubt that the eyes would be the same bright shade of blue. Each of the men wore
a white drape of cloth about their bodies, fastened at the shoulder with a silver ring. The rings flashed shards of green
and red and blue in the sunlight, and unconsciously, Braldt’s fingers rose to his own shoulder to stroke the ring that was
no longer there. He had once owned such a ring! Who could these people be and what did it all mean?

Confusion tore at his mind, conflicting thoughts pinwheeling through his head as he stared at the men who were most probably
his enemy yet looked enough like him to be brother or father or both. Then a voice intruded on his thoughts, speaking in imperious
tones through the silver disc fastened to his skull. “Contestants, gladiators, the games are about to commence. The moment
you have waited for will soon be here. We have followed your progress with interest and feel certain that the contests will
be worthy of our efforts.”

Those standing in the arena began to stir restlessly, eyes darting nervously in all directions. “Worth whose effort?” spat
one of the reptilian men, his comment echoed by a score of his companions.

The regal voice continued on as though unaware of the murmur of discontent rising from the sands below. “As promised, at the
close of each contest, the victors will be rewarded by the answer of a question. But before the games begin, there is one
further bit of business that must be completed. As you will notice, each team
consists of five members. Unfortunately, that is one too many. Your first task will be the elimination of one member of your
team. That choice we leave up to you….”

A loud outcry rose from the armed gathering. Teammates stared at each other in distrust and dismay while others brandished
their weapons at the speakers.

“You will choose the member to be eliminated, or we will make the choice for you,” the speaker said, his voice growing harsh
and cold. “There is nothing to be gained by procrastinating, for the outcome will be the same.”

Beside Braldt, a small, furred creature with four arms whirled on its companions, those it had eaten, slept, and trained beside,
and stabbed a smooth-skinned hunchback between the eyes, pinning him to the ground and falling on his chest with his knees
until the flailing limbs lay limp and unmoving in the red dust. The furred beast clung to his weapon and glared defiantly,
baring his fangs in a growl at those who stared at him in shocked disbelief.

All around him there were mutters and the ring of steel being drawn from scabbards and sheathes. On the perimeter of the arena,
the guards moved closer, closing the circle, weapons at the ready for the first sign of rebellion.

“This ain’t right,” complained a voice. “They can’t make us kill each other, can they? I mean, it ain’t like we’re all cold
blooded…” There was a sudden shriek and the voice ended abruptly.

Randi moved to Braldt’s side, pressing her lithe
form against him, drawing the object that she had named a laser gun and thumbing it back to the stun setting. Allo and Septua
drew in as well until the four of them stood back to back in a tight formation bristling with weaponry in all directions.
Marin was the odd man out.

Still, Braldt had no wish to fight the black man, or see him die for that matter. If they must fight in competition, the black
man would be a valuable fighter—he was strong and skillful and crafty in the art of deception. To sacrifice any of his companions
was unthinkable.

“Marin, we do not have to do as they say,” said Braldt, lowering his sword and speaking earnestly to the black man who had
gone into a crouch, his trident extended before him, nearly touching Braldt’s chest. “Let us put our differences aside and
fight together; they cannot make us fight each other if we refuse.”