The Hunter on Arena (23 page)

He had observed the young man’s progress over the years, taken pride in his considerable accomplishments, and wracked his
brain for a way to bring the boy back to a world he had never known. It had never seemed possible, for even if he could be
returned, Brandtson knew that the Thanes would see Braldt as a threat, a symbol of all they feared the most—revolt from within.

And now this. Brandtson opened his fist and stared at the crumpled bit of fabric that lay there. Not a holotransfer, not a
vocal transcript, not an encoding, but a primitive note—large, childish, block printing on a torn fragment of fabric—furtively
pressed into his hand as he made his way through the crowded marketplace.

Was it a trick of some sort? Did the Council suspect his true sympathies? What could they do to him at his age, put him in
the ring? He almost smiled at the thought. But if it was not a trick, then what did it mean? Was it possible… could it possibly
be true? Brandtson’s heart began to pound and the blood roared in his temples. He grew dizzy and was forced to sit down, then
stared at the note again, although he had already committed the single word to memory. It was a scrap of primitively woven
cloth, woven from organic fibers, like nothing worn on Valhalla, but identical to the robes worn by the natives on K7. Drawn
onto the fabric with some inky dye was the single word, “BRALDT.”

* * *

Keri was frightened. Nothing had gone right for the last two days. Twice they had been readied for the arena and then hastily
returned to their cell without any explanation. There seemed to be a great deal of coming and going and furtive whispers between
guards, shifty looks that observed them when they were not looking, then turned away swiftly. Several of the white-robed men
who wore Braldt’s face came and studied them, standing back from the bars, well out of Batta Flor’s long reach. They were
the subject of intense scrutiny and it seemed that some momentous decision was being made that concerned them. Keri wished
that she knew what was happening. Even more, she wished that she could talk about it, but there was no one to talk to except
Batta Flor and the lupebeast pup, which meant that she might as well talk to herself for all the good they would do her.

And then the visits stopped. There were no more game days, for which Keri was thankful, but neither was there any explanation
of what was happening. Their guards, never talkative to begin with, were even less eager to speak. They merely arrived bearing
larger quantities of food than normal and of a far better quality. Their diet included meat for the first time and Batta Flor,
who had always been a devout vegetarian, devoured the bloody cuts with gusto.

His behavior became even more bestial with every passing day and Keri found it increasingly difficult to fend off his advances.
Often, he would become surly and snarl at her, baring his long eyeteeth when she refused to let him stroke or pat her.

Once, Beast had snapped at the Madrelli when he
came too close to Keri and Batta Flor swatted him with the back of his hand, sending the pup crashing into a wall where he
lay whimpering. Keri had rushed to his side, fearing the worst, but the pup was merely bruised and dazed. She had turned on
Batta Flor and screamed at him, terrified that he might actually kill the pup at some point and then she would be all alone.
Batta Flor had roared back at her and pounded his chest in fury. Both of them had retreated to opposite corners and ignored
each other for the rest of the day.

Keri knew that something unusual was going on, something that concerned them; she just didn’t know what and there was nothing
she could do but wait to find out.

Septua was furious. He strode back and forth inside the cell, pacing twenty steps in one direction then twenty steps in the
other, cursing all the while.

“I told you we couldn’t trust ’er!” he ranted. “That old bitch! Lyin’ to us, sayin’ she was gonna ’elp. Then, nothin’, nothin’
a’tall, just leaving us ’ere to rot! I told you they was all alike, but no, you believed ’er, was taken in by ’er faintin’,
by ’er sad, sad story. It was all a joke, I tell you! She never ’ad no intention of ‘elpin’ us!”

Randi sighed and shot a quick look at Braldt who was staring at the ground, his hands hanging limp. He had not reacted to
the dwarf’s words, yet Randi knew that he had heard them and had probably thought them all himself as had they all. Several
days had passed since Lomi’s clandestine visit and all of them had been buoyed
by an almost euphoric sense of hope. Their hopes had been so high that the descent into reality was all the more painful.

“Maybe something happened to the woman,” Allo suggested. “She was not well; perhaps she was taken ill. She did not seem the
type to break a promise.”

“Yeah, sure, take ’er side,” spat the dwarf as he whirled around to face Allo. “It’s no fur off your ugly ’ide; you probably
like it ’ere. But I’ave a life I’d like to get back to!”

Randi’s head snapped up and her green eyes grew bright with anger. She was at Septua’s side in two long strides, and picking
him up by the back of his neck, shook him back and forth so hard his vertebrae cracked.

“How dare you, you—you little piece of slime, you! How dare you speak to us that way. We all have lives we’d like to get back
to. Lives that are far more significant than yours will ever be and people who love us and care what happens to us! What do
you have waiting for you? Does anyone even give a damn whether you live or die?” The astonished dwarf hung limp from the end
of her fingers and stared up at her, too stunned to speak.

“And another thing, you little piece of space garbage, you ever touch me again, it had better be to shake my hand. Got that?”

Septua did his best to nod and Randi dropped him abruptly. She turned on her heel and walked away without a backward glance
as the dwarf crashed to the floor, still too wrapped in her own anger to notice the admiring glances that followed the amazing
byplay.

“I hope you did not feel the need to defend me,” Braldt said as Randi thumped down onto the floor beside him. “His words no
longer trouble me.”

“His words trouble me, damm it,” Randi snapped angrily. “That little slime! I have a husband and a child I would like to see
again. And parents. And who’s he got, a paid floxie who betrayed him the first chance she got!

“And I’m worried about Lomi,” she said in a quieter tone, her green eyes luminous with unshed tears. “I cannot believe that
it was all a hoax. I’m afraid that something has happened to her.”

“I, too, fear that some misfortune has befallen her,” Braldt said heavily. “It took great courage for her to come here alone.
But what can we do? We can do nothing trapped in this place. We cannot even help ourselves, much less another.”

He thought a moment, then rose to his feet and crossed to the front of the cell. “Water!” he cried loudly, rapping his cup
on the bars. He continued to call until the water carrier trundled into view pushing her cart before her, grumbling loudly
at every step.

It was most unusual for the crone to answer anyone’s request, for more than half the time she ignored her charges during even
her normal rounds. But as soon as Braldt saw the sharp gleam in Saviq’s single eye, he knew that she was aware of the situation
and was as concerned as they were.

“Have you any news of the woman, Lomi?” Braldt asked softly as he held his cup out to be filled.

Saviq focused on his face, listening intently to the
words as she poured water that missed his cup entirely and splattered onto the ground.

“Nuzzing,” she replied in a thick accent, made all the more difficult to understand because of her deformed muzzle.

“We are worried about her,” Braldt said, speaking slowly and carefully. “She promised to return. To help us. Can you find
out if she is all right?”

Saviq started to tremble and water splashed everywhere but into the cup. “Go to Scandi quarters?” Those were the last words
that Braldt was able to understand, for the old crone’s words became jumbled and a bewildering juxtaposition of noises and
words. She started to leave, but Braldt dropped his cup, and reaching through the bars seized her rough, scaly wrist and held
on tightly, forcing her to turn around and look at him.

“You said you were her friend. We are her friends, too. She risked a great deal by coming here and she trusted you to help
her. If she is hurt or in danger, we must find out. We must help. That is what friends are for.”

Saviq tried to pull away, but Braldt would not release her wrist. Finally, she stammered out a reply which Braldt interpreted
as saying that she would try to find out what had happened. He let her go, fixing her with a steely glare and hoping that
she would do as she said. If she did not, there was really nothing he could do to convince her otherwise.

But Saviq had indeed given her word, even though Braldt had guessed more than understood her meaning. She fretted over the
indignity of being seized by the
young man, yet, still, it was very bold and daring of him and she could not help but admire him for his courage. None of the
other prisoners would dared to have touched her for fear of reprisals. Little did they know that she hated and feared the
guards as much as they did. She pushed her heavy cart back to her cubbyhole, ignoring the cries of thirsty inmates which she
seldom allowed to penetrate her consciousness, far preferring to ruminate on her own dark thoughts.

She sighed deeply as she sank down next to the fire and felt the deep ache in her ancient bones. She was tired. She was old
and alone and had no one to love her. Did it matter if she was killed? There were none who would mourn her, except perhaps
the woman Lomi, she who should have been her enemy but was her only friend. She wrapped her scaly limbs in yet another blanket
and shivered. She was cold all the time now and it was a cold that no amount of blankets or fire could warm.

The old gods spoke of a place where all those who died were reunited. In her youth, when old age and death were but a foreign
concept, she had scoffed at such beliefs. It seemed so obvious—when one died, one died, there was nothing more. But now, after
a lifetime of sorrow, with pain her constant companion and all she had loved gone, Saviq wanted nothing more than to believe
that the old gods knew what they were talking about. Briefly, she wondered if she would still be old and ugly and her lover
young and handsome as the day he died when they met again. She banished the thought from her mind.

She resolved that she would venture into the vast complex that housed the Scandis as soon as night fell and attempt to find
the woman who had been her friend. That much she would do, and if she was killed, well, life had been anything but good; one
could only pray that death would be more kind.

It was many hours before darkness fell and traffic lessened in the corridors. It was not an ordinary day. It seemed that things
had been strange ever since the night that Lomi came. There had been no games since that day and it was obvious even to her
that the Scandis were worried about something. Briefly, she wondered what it could be.

She tried to tell herself that the sight of one old water carrier would not alarm anyone and that she would be allowed to
pass simply because she was no one of importance. But it did not work that way. She passed through the last of the prisoner
and animal quarters and immediately found herself challenged by a pair of nervous young guards. They were not Scandis but
aliens from another world, and although fearful of making a mistake, they were not as alert as a Scandi would have been.

Saviq knew they would not be able to understand her. It was a knack she had cultivated when she discovered how much it annoyed
the Scandis. They were so superior, it was almost beyond their comprehension that one of their brilliant devices would fail
to do as they wished. It pleased her immensely to foil them with even such a little matter, speaking so that nothing she said
could be understood. Now, she looked the two guards in the eyes and babbled at them, saying nothing that made sense, but
dropping an occasional word that could be understood— the name of the Lady Lomi, order, urgent, angry, council. The guards
looked at each other in confusion. Saviq repeated her message a second time, in a slightly louder voice, and stepped toward
the guards, bumping them slightly. She hid her amusement as the guards parted, allowing her to pass, asking each other what
she had said.

This ploy worked well and allowed her to penetrate into the heart of the Scandi complex, passing two more sets of guards and
leaving them in confusion.
Authority worked the same everywhere,
she mused,
on all races no matter what their planet of origin.
Everyone was afraid of making a mistake and equally afraid of making a decision. So long as one acted confident and slightly
demanding, the odds were in your favor that you could force your will on others.

Now that she had succeeded in finding her way into the heart of enemy territory, there was another problem. She had no idea
of how to go about finding the Lady Lomi. A figure scurried toward her, a shriveled-up, little, old woman, even tinier and
older than she was, clinging to the wall and seemingly fearful of her own shadow. A thought took shape in Saviq’s mind, one
that brought a sly grin to her misshapen muzzle. She hobbled over to the woman, smiling to herself as the woman cringed back
in fear, her serving tray and the silver objects that it held rattling loudly.

“Where is the Lady Lomi?” Saviq demanded, taking care to speak clearly.

The woman began to speak, her words tumbling
over themselves in a breathless rush, the fear apparent in her eyes. For the first time ever, Saviq was glad for her frightening
appearance. At first she could make no sense of the woman’s words, for she seemed to be saying that Lomi’s rooms were in one
direction, but Lomi herself in another. Saviq frowned with impatience, then reached out and grabbed the woman who dropped
the tray and shrieked loudly.