The Hunter on Arena (7 page)

She was in a chamber constructed of some smooth material that was neither metal nor wood. It had no seams of any sort at the
juncture of wall and floor or
anywhere else that her questing fingers could find, and she had been over every inch of the room a hundred times since her
first awakening.

The room was no more than ten paces in any direction and round in shape. It was neither cold nor hot but perfectly balanced
to her own temperature so that it almost felt as though she were enclosed in some giant womb. A steady rhythmic pulsing throbbed
through the walls of the chamber, intensifying the sensation, and she soon identified it as a duplication of her own heartbeat
which increased with her fears and slowed in sleep.

Food and drink arrived almost magically, although by what means she had yet to discover, for it was always beside her when
she wakened. She had tried to remain awake in order to discover who or what brought the meals, but she had been unable to
do so, her eyes growing heavy despite her resolve. She had tried to feign sleep as well, but all in vain. Her wastes were
disposed of in a deep depression in the center of the chamber and a bone button torn from her shirt brought no sound of bottom.
As the depression was no wider than her arm and would provide no possible route of escape, she ceased to consider it.

And then the nightmares began.

They were always the same, bright, blinding lights that she could not escape shining into her eyes, her body unable to answer
the most simple commands. She could not even blink. There were questions, or rather the reverberating memory of questions,
that hung in the air like angry bees. Nor could she remember their content when she wakened. She was not alone in these nightmares;
the presence of others was tangible and she could see their blurred forms bending over her but she was unable to make out
their features. They wanted something from her, she knew that much, but she did not know what.

Slowly, Keri became aware of the presence of another. She could not have said what it was that alerted her, but somehow, she
knew it to be true. The hair prickled on the back of her arms and neck and she opened her eyes, willing herself to see through
the impenetrable darkness. But to her amazement, the familiar darkness, pressing down on her like a heavy weight, was gone.
The chamber was filled with a soft, gray twilight, almost too bright for her stunned senses to comprehend.

There was a soft groaning exhalation of breath. Keri turned quickly, and there, sprawled on the floor behind her, was Batta
Flor and beside him, legs spread awkwardly, tongue lolling between his teeth, was the beast pup.

Keri bent over the Madrelli, fearful that he was dead. He was alive and showed no sign of injury, but fixed in the middle
of his forehead, flush with the tangled, furry skin, was a bright, silver object punctured with a regular pattern of holes
each barely larger than a pinprick. Keri reached out with trembling fingers and touched it. Batta Flor moaned and turned his
head aside, and Keri darted back, terrified that she had caused him pain.

Even as she stared at the Madrelli in dismay, she became aware of a dull, persistent throbbing above her
own left ear. She raised her hand and probed gently, fearfully, afraid as she had never been afraid before.

It was there. She was filled with nausea. A sickness rose in her throat all but overwhelming her with a sense of defilement.
She fell to her knees, overcome with the desire to retch, and then as she swayed there, her hair sweeping forward to cover
her shame, another emotion began to grow. It was a tiny thing at first, no more than a tendril winding in among the clouds
of horror, but it grew steadily like a winter storm that sometimes swept in off the plains blotting out the sky from heaven
to horizon. Her anger fed on her sense of betrayal, her shame, and her outrage until it burned steadily, a bright fury against
those who had used her body for their own purposes.

She turned her attention to Batta Flor and the lupebeast, contenting herself that they had not been harmed. The beast, while
unconscious, did not appear to wear the metallic implant. Keri sat back on her heels and waited for them to waken. While she
waited, she laid her plans. They had been taken captive and were at the mercy of unknown others, but they were not helpless,
passive creatures to do another’s bidding. They would watch and wait and learn. The three of them had faced the odds before
and survived. They would do so again.

Suddenly there was a soft rumbling sound and a section of the wall began to slide smoothly aside. Brilliant light tinged with
red flooded the small chamber. Her eyes were unprepared for such a vivid display and she put her hand up to block the light.
As she did so, three figures appeared before her, silhouetted against the bright backdrop, a corona of jewel-like rays outlining
their
bodies. There was something familiar about the form that halted the scream that rose in Keri’s throat. They paused, and then
as her eyes slowly became adjusted to the glare, the figures stepped forward. Keri’s hand dropped from her eyes and came to
rest on her throat, daring to hope, yet fearful and disbelieving. She could not believe what she was seeing; her brain and
her heart warred with one another and the desire to believe won out over cold intellect. Dropping her hands to her sides,
eyes shining, a smile trembling on her lips, she stepped forward, ready and willing to accept whatever would come.

Braldt had often observed the slavers on his own
world as they plied their miserable trade between the various tribes, making certain that they did not enter the city nor
attempt to abduct any of the Duroni. He had seen the unfortunate captives beaten and abused, and those deemed to be of little
value deprived of their meager rations, dragging listlessly in their chains until they died or were ruthlessly killed. He
had seen hideous wounds and grievous suffering during times of war and he had often seen death. But none of it had prepared
him for the misery he found waiting for him in his new life.

Shortly after they completed their tour of the amphitheater, an arched door opened on the side of the ring and a small contingent
of warriors dressed in heavy leather and metal armor marched toward them. They were led by a single man, so huge and thickly
muscled that his armor creaked and groaned at his every step. It was immediately apparent from their posture and the way they
held their weapons at the ready that the warriors meant to take them prisoner and were prepared to do battle if necessary.

Looking around the circular confines of the amphitheater, the small band of disparate comrades had sought
an avenue of escape, all thought of enmity gone as they closed ranks against the common enemy. As though anticipating their
thoughts, the warriors had spread out at a signal from their leader, surrounding them, swords and shields held at battle height.
Freedom, if such a thing were possible, would be won at a heavy cost.

Rather than risk the loss of one of their members, they had allowed themselves to be herded through the dark opening of the
stone arch, the cool shadows a welcome relief after the heat of the unfamiliar suns. Surrounded on all sides by the silent
but watchful guards, they had filed down a broad corridor lined with barred and hobnailed doors set deeply in the thick, stone
walls.

Furtive faces had peered out at them through small openings tightly gridded with heavy, metal mesh. Fury and rage burned in
many of those eyes, but there was also the dull, listless gaze of those who had ceased to hope and the bright, burning light
of the hopelessly insane.

There was a cacophony of sounds as well; the rattle of bars, the pounding of fists and feet against ungiving wood, a litany
of curses in a multitude of languages all of which Braldt understood, the growls and demented screams of those who had fallen
over the edge of sanity, and numerous, abusive comments upon each of the new arrivals, gauging and wagering on the odds against
their survival. Above all there was a wild howling, growling, roar of animals rising from somewhere in the bowels of the earth.

The stench was indescribable, rank and fetid not unlike the stink of a merebear’s cave after its seasonal
hibernation. It was a combination of filthy unwashed bodies, fermenting bodily wastes, and the sweetish aroma of rotting flesh.
The only way to endure the hideous odor was to close one’s nostrils and breath through one’s open mouth, mimicking the guards
who marched along stolidly, ignoring the insults and curses which were hurled their way without so much as a sideways glance.

These guards were of varied races, barely half of them human in form, others were a multitude of furred or carapaced creatures
with varying numbers of appendages, eyes and body openings in unusual places. The single common denominator was the silver
circlet of metal affixed to some portion of their heads as well as the armor and weaponry which so clearly separated them
from those they guarded.

Finally the corridor ended, terminating in a giant, oblong enclosure with bars running from floor to ceiling. The heavy door
was unlocked and the guards stood to one side, hands gripping their weapons, eyes hard and watchful, clearly ready for any
sign of resistance.

Braldt paused, knowing the odds were against him but wondering if they would ever have another chance. But before he could
act, Allo placed his large, clawed paw on Braldt’s shoulder and murmured into his ear, “Not now, my friend, there are too
many of them and they are too ready for just such an attempt. Be patient, victory is patience’s reward.” Still Braldt hesitated,
unwilling to calmly enter the cell like some sacrificial offering. The head guard shoved his men aside with the back of his
hand and approached Braldt, barreling forward until they stood toe to toe, chests and chins nearly
touching. Braldt fought down the need to step back, to reclaim his aura of space, and held his ground, meeting and matching
the man’s truculent stare. They stared into each other’s eyes without flinching for a seemingly endless period of time. The
noise of the prison seemed to vanish and Braldt was aware of the beat of his heart, the pulse of blood in his temples, and
the collective tension emanating from his companions as well as the guards.

And then Randi was beside him, sliding her cool, slender hand into his. Startled, Braldt broke his concentration and glanced
down at her for the merest fraction of an instant. That was all it took; the guard butted Braldt with his chest, knocking
him through the door and into the cell. The others were quickly prodded through at swordpoint and the door swung shut behind
them with a resounding clang.

The sound had barely finished echoing in the dark recesses before they became aware of the press of bodies closing in around
them and hands reaching out, seizing on Marin’s leather vest and Braldt’s belt as well as Allo’s thick pelt and the silvery
fabric of Randi’s close-fitting garment. There was a sudden outcry of pain and a body flew through the air, its arm bent at
an angle nature had never fashioned. Marin growled and a space opened around him momentarily only to close in once again,
shoved forward by those in the rear who were not in any immediate danger and had no compunction against offering up their
comrades for sacrifice. Only by placing themselves back to back and presenting a united front against the wild mob that surrounded
them, were Braldt and his companions able to gain a moment’s respite.

The guards stood outside the cell and watched with obvious interest. Coins changed hands as they wagered among themselves
how the newcomers would fare. Braldt had only a moment to observe their interest as well as to conclude that they could expect
no help from that quarter no matter what the outcome before the mob closed in on them again.

This time the crowd was better prepared and brandished a variety of homemade weapons. Those without weapons protected themselves
with filthy mattresses leaking lice-ridden straw and crudely fashioned chairs; the legs acting as both weapons and the advance
guard.

They were an ugly group of beings, the dregs of humanity whose narrow brows, jutting jaws, and shambling gaits spoke eloquently
of their low breeding and even lower intellect. But what they lacked in evolutionary advancement, they had learned to compensate
for in survival techniques. In the blur of time that followed the first opening feint, Braldt and the others were forced to
rely on every trick they knew just to stay alive.

Eventually, due to their superior physical condition and the years of training each of them had undergone, they defeated the
mob and sent them whimpering and howling back to their corners nursing their aching heads and bruised and broken bones… but
it was a hard-won victory for they themselves had been pummeled and struck hard and often, and bore numerous wounds of their
own. Allo was the most severely injured, partially because of his size, for in sheer bulk, he was the largest among them and
the slowest moving.

Despite his impressive build and the wicked-looking
claws, it was obvious that Allo lacked the vicious temperament that combined with his size would have made him a dangerous
opponent. He had suffered a long, ragged gash across the upper back that had peeled back the thick pelt exposing the bands
of muscle. He had also been cut above the left eye, and while the wound was not deep, it bled profusely, matting his fur together
and dripping off the ends of his moustaches and beard.