WOLF DAWN: Science Fiction Thriller/ Romance (Forsaken Worlds) (30 page)

At one point Ash looked up, straight into the attentive eyes of Jani, the old woman he had often traded with when visiting the Ferals. She had set up a stall and had not changed from what he could see. Still gray haired, toothless and old. Ash looked into her face and found sympathy and recognition there. She remained quite still, but her eyes moved over him, his neck chain and his captors, taking in his circumstances. They returned to his face with a hard, expressionless look.

Ash gave her an imperceptible nod of acknowledgment. Subtle, almost wolf like, Jani was observant and would know by his nod that he understood. And he really did understand. He knew Jani so well. Jani was worn and damaged by the hardship of fighting and of surviving a difficult life. Her physical form completely camouflaged the infinite strength and determination of the person within. With that one expression Jani had told him that she disapproved of his capture and resultant slavery.

Ash imagined what she was thinking, as clearly as if he had heard her thoughts:
Off-worlder got his self in trouble. Stupid man-child … more guts and go than sense.
Not only was the woman on his side, but she would find a way to free him at the soonest opportunity. Jani would not rest until she did. Ash felt her intention and the warmth of honest human connection, something he had not experienced for far too long.

Ash’s heart lightened, and despite the circumstances he was filled with joy … and hope. He
thought, Many would look at Jani and see an ugly old woman. They would never know her force of character, the Titan underneath. He smiled. To him, Jani was beautiful.

Soon the moment arrived. Time for the evening entertainment, the highlight, what everyone had come here to see: the animal fights. A large open area was the site of the event; it was covered by grass that had been eaten right down to the dirt by grazing stock. A pit had been dug down to some depth: this was the arena. Ash carefully observed the surroundings as much as he could. No fresh dirt, only solid clay — the pit must have been a source of entertainment for years. Dug into an enormous circle, the pit was large enough that everyone could look down and watch the show. It also ran deeper than a tall man’s head would be if he stood inside. A wooden platform circled the arena — to prevent people from falling in, perhaps.

A few rusty speeders lay around, scattered about like fallen leaves, but it appeared that of the hundreds of people who had come, almost all had arrived on foot. A number of stalls had been set up far off to one side, where food, drink and other various amusements were being bartered or exchanged for credit. He smelled cooking meat, burning pitch, spices and the sharp bite of alcohol. Torches illuminated the night; they flickered in the light breeze, keeping the darkness at bay. Some of the torches were held, others planted into the ground. Burning brightly, they cast an eerie, indistinct glow that distorted the visages of the inebriated hill people. The Ferals, muddled and weaving, moved like misshapen demons in the distorted light.

The first animal was brought out, dragged out in its cage and carefully dumped into the arena: it was a large and angry boar. A few pig-dogs were brought toward the pit by their owners. Not really dogs, they were an indigenous animal that looked a bit like a badger with quills instead of fur. Carnivorous hunters and scavengers, they loved to fight and could be trained to track boar. They were on leashes, but were snarling and snapping, their spittle flying into the crowd. As one, the multitude moved back, giving the aggressive animals space.

The crowd almost resonated in a wild frenzy. Filled with fanatical enthusiasm they were gambling large amounts, shouting to be heard amidst the din. Bets and coarse comments verbally exploded back and forth from within the confines of the crowd. The verbal barrage was so swift and loud that it reminded Ash of rapid weapon fire. It was difficult to tell who was actually speaking.

“I bet a credit that the boar wins.”

“Two on the pig dog.”

“A dog couldn’t kill a boar.”

“Make it two pig dogs!”

“Yes. It’s a small boar. An even match.”

The contest was set, and two of the vicious-looking dogs were dropped into the arena with the infuriated boar. Ash looked on in disgust. What a waste. The pig-dogs had been bred and trained to flush out, fight and hold wild boar, so their masters could come in for the kill. On their own, however, such dogs wouldn’t have a chance.

To Ein’s dismay, the object of his attentions, Jeanie, hadn’t come to the animal fights. Ein’s disappointment had been momentary. Both Del and Ein were convulsing with laughter and screaming, thoroughly enjoying the proceedings. Every so often, Del would raise his arms in his excitement and wrench Ash’s neck violently. He was becoming quite used to it. He could even predict when to move, in order to lessen the jar.

The boar had tusked one dog, throwing with such force that it flew, mortally wounded and howling with pain and terror, into the roaring crowd. The other soon met a similar fate, except it remained inside the ring with the maddened boar. It was trampled and tusked again and again well after it was dead. The rank smell of fresh blood filled the air like a malevolent perfume.

Credit changed hands, more drinks went around, and the rest of the night continued along the same vein. By the end of the evening there were no more animals left to fight. The remaining living creature, the challenger, who had destroyed all opponents, was the king of all. It was a huge male boar — much, much larger than the first boar that had fought. An intelligent creature, it trotted around the arena restlessly, barrel chest heaving, tusks gleaming with blood in the firelight, snorting and sniffing. The creature was turning its head from side to side as it trotted around the ring. Its small round eyes were searching, looking up at the crowd of people above: it was expectant, watching for another victim.

Someone found a full-grown twill and threw it in the pit, having taken bets on how long the bird would last. Laughter and clapping erupted at this new source of entertainment. With a rush of hoofs, the bird was down within seconds, the boar trampling and tusking the life out of it, its bloody snout covered with fresh gore and feathers.

Lost Souls of Perdition,
Ash stared in awe.
That animal is mad.
Blood crazed, frenzied, the boar continued its bizarre rampage, tusking, tusking over again, stabbing, crushing, and trampling any remaining scraps of animals and occasionally crashing into the walls of the pit in its savage rage.

Ash was repelled and nauseated by the cruel sport. This place offended his sense of smell and sight. A foul odor of fear, blood, brutalized flesh and abhorrent death permeated the entire area. He almost preferred the mine. Every animal had died for nothing. Sickened with disgust, Ash longed to return to the sanity of the wolves. How could people do this for pleasure? And what unnatural satisfaction could one obtain by watching these senseless, savage deaths?

The maddened boar continued careening around the ring in its rage, having destroyed every opponent. There was nothing else to match with the boar in the arena. Almost as one, the crowd seemed to sigh with this knowledge, experiencing an almost palpable wave of dejection. The ongoing din of argument, laughter, and chatter abated and an unhappy, brooding silence followed. The Ferals mood darkened. The night’s entertainment had come to an end.

Someone started booing and this began a chorus of agreement. Others began to make noises of disparagement, hissing and scowling, swearing and making scornful hand gestures. It was as if one instrument had started playing and, as a consequence, an entire orchestra had joined in. The music was the same and everyone was contributing to the common refrain.

“Booooo. Boooo.”

Various profanities were shouted out: colorful, loud, intense and obscene.

The throng was unhappy.

Evidently the crowd’s lust for death wasn’t sated.

Ash scanned the sea of faces surrounding him. There were no longer any individuals in this rabble. They reacted as if they had one common mood, as if they were one single being. The massive crowd was becoming angry and that rage was like a rapidly spreading malignant disease spiraling into something more pronounced.

Anything could happen.

Anything.

Like a spark to dry tender, or the last charged particle that sets off a nuclear reaction, Ash could feel it: the crowd was going to explode. Just as he realized how dangerous the feral mob was becoming, someone whooped. It was a yell of joy, heard by all.

“I got an idea. A good one!” a man yelled. “The slave! I bet five credits that your slave goes down in less than two minutes.”

The mob responded instantly, like the ignition of rocket fuel. The rabble was not sated — it wanted more blood. There was a palpable frenzy of fresh excitement; the crowd moved forward in a rush of fresh energy, a ripple of purpose. The multitude surged toward Ash, roaring with one united voice.

“Yes,” they shouted, voices high pitched with excitement. “The off-worlder. Throw in the off-worlder!”

“Yes! Yes!” The words were shouted in an earsplitting roar.

“Throw him in! Throw him in!”

“I wager he be dead in three minutes,” a gray-bearded man with a surprisingly thunderous voice yelled, raising a gnarled hand.

“Three and a half credits says he runs and don’t even try to fight,” another cried out.

“Ha,” one fellow retorted, “I’ll take that wager. I’m thinking he’ll be too scared to run,” the man chortled gleefully.

“No,” Del protested at full volume. As the crowd surged toward him he raised his hands up high, as if to ward off an avalanche. “He’s worth credit. We got to keep him working in the mine.”

Weak with relief, Ash could hardly remain standing. He looked toward Del with heartfelt gratitude. Thank Jana. Del didn’t want to put him in the pit; he knew that Ash was too valuable. Del was on his side. To enter that arena without the power to mind-touch would be suicide. This triumphant boar was particularly formidable, an experienced predator that enjoyed the kill.

“I’ll buy your slave. Then when he’s gone it’s not your loss,” one man offered. Compared to the other Ferals he was almost well dressed. “Ten Credits.”

Pure terror rushed through Ash, freezing him to stillness; it was as if there was ice water running in his veins.

“Not enough.” Del shouted to be heard above the crowd.

“Twenty.”

“No. No, Del, Listen. You need me,” Ash urged. He could feel his heart in his chest, pounding with dread. What could he say that could compete with Del’s greed? How could he get through to him? Frantic, Ash said, “I know where there is gold, Del. I’ve been there, in the mountains. I can show you.”

Del wasn’t listening. “Twenty isn’t enough. He can work for years, yet.”

“Thirty.”

Ash was shouting, desperate to be heard. “I know where you can get jewels. Delian Damithst. Priceless jewels. Don’t sell me. I can make you rich.”

“Thirty is a good price,” the well-dressed man assured.

Del’s face was expressionless. He looked toward his brother. Ein shrugged and pointed upwards. He obviously thought they could get more than thirty.

“No. No, please. Listen, you need me,” Ash begged. Any consideration of pride disappeared like fog blown away by a strong hot wind or vanishing under a searing sun. He went down on his knees before Del, in an attempt to get his attention. Del had always wanted him begging. When measured up against being put in an arena with a maddened boar, getting on his knees just didn’t seem such a big deal.

“Thirty-five,” the stranger offered.

Wrists still cuffed behind his back, Ash pushed against Del’s legs with his torso, still trying to get his attention. Del frowned, a furrow between his brows. He looked down at Ash as if assessing his worth.

On his knees, Ash pleaded for his life. “I do the work. Think about it. Who will work your mine?” His heart was thumping; he felt breathless. “Please, Del, please. I swear. I’ll work harder. I’ll do anything. Anything! Just don’t put me in the ring.” Ash was desperate. It was an overwhelming, soul-destroying sentiment that he had up until now been unaware he was even capable of.

His mind held one thought:
I don’t want to die.

Del looked up at the rich stranger, ignoring Ash. He rubbed his bearded chin, considering for a few moments. Then he hawked and spat, putting his right hand out. “Forty and it’s done,” he said.

The strange shook his head. “Thirty-eight and that’s my last offer.”

Del looked at Ein.

Ein grinned broadly, making no attempt to conceal his delight.

“Done. Sold at thirty-eight.”

The men both spat and shook hands and the rich man carefully counted out the credits. Ein slapped his brother on the back, and the two men hugged and danced a little jig.

“Well, will ya look here at what we just done?” Del said. “Thirty-eight. It’s a fortune.”

“Yup,” Ein agreed. “We sure as Deceiver’s shit will have some fun spending that. I bet even Jeannie will want me now.”

And so it was that Ash was purchased by the highest bidder. But there would be no time to get to know his new master. For Ash had been sold to provide sport, to die in agony under the fascinated gaze of hundreds of spectators.

Mother Latnok demanded, “Say this: ‘I am Ashton, Trueborn of Delian. I am not afraid.’” The Seer knew that I was frightened, and this realization made me angry. A strange sensation came to me then from somewhere inside. It clawed at me, wanting to get out: courage, pride and … something else … something inhuman. I thought: This is what I’ve lost. This is what I seek … this truth. It was then that all fear fled, banished by a sudden powerful awareness from within.

— Trueborn private files

F
lanked by two tough-looking bodyguards, the buyer paid Del the agreed-upon sum. One grabbed Ash’s neck shackle, and began to pull. Numb with shock and disbelief, and already on his knees, Ash stumbled and fell heavily on his face and shoulder. With his arms bound in handcuffs behind his back he couldn’t break his fall, nor could he right himself. Without a moment’s hesitation the man and his associates simply dragged him in the dirt. The chain bit fiercely into his neck. They were pulling him toward the pit where the maddened boar waited.

“Wait,” Ash choked. Shifting and stumbling awkwardly, working to keep the ring from pulling, Ash staggered, and managed to get to his feet. At length, with a few running steps, he was able to follow behind his new master. They pulled him onward, to the wooden benches that surrounded the arena.

“No,” Ash whispered as he gazed into the pit. The boar, its pink tusks glistening with blood, was still charging, back and forth, its anger unabated. Ash swayed, feeling faint. Terror gripped him and he screamed
“No!”
at the top of his voice.

No one heard him in the din. The wagers continued with fresh enthusiasm. It was two to one that Ash would be dead within thirty seconds. No one bet that he would live more than a minute.

A pig-dog handler scoffed, “One man against this maddened boar? Five seconds is all I give him — and he’d be lucky to last that long.”

There was ribald laughter and coarse jesting in response. The mob yelled to each other with feral joy. People were smiling now, joking and laughing. Bets were hammered down, one after another, pounding unabated like water in an equatorial downpour. Drinks were sculled, and trays of foodstuffs were sold and consumed; half-clad women were plying their trade. It all added to the demonic revelry. Credits flowed like mountain streams after melting winter snows. A number of others, out of credit and unable to bet, were entertaining themselves by throwing stones and other objects at the infuriated boar, keeping its fury fresh.

“Five credits that the slave dies in less than thirty seconds.”

“That boar, he so mad he gonna tusk and tusk that boy to shreds. Ain’t nobody gonna live more than ten seconds in the ring with that animal.”

“I’ll take that bet,” a skinny, plain-faced woman with brown hair shouted, raising her arm, and holding out her money. Ash observed that she had a black eye and was missing her front teeth. “Boy looks fit to me. He’ll get a chance to run some.”

“Who wants in on the tusking? It’s a big boar … tall, too.”

“First tusk anywhere above the groin,” a dark-haired man with a long, dark beard and thick eyebrows offered. Ash noticed that the man had a toddler sitting on his shoulders. The young boy had his pudgy childish fingers in the man’s hair. Beside him, a pinched-faced woman held a baby on her hip. “That’ll be my wager: three to one. Gonna be stomach or back, you mark my words now. Who’ll bet?”

“I bet the leg. Close to the ground. That off-worlder’ll be jumping around, trying to outrun ‘em.”

“Left or right?” The dark man queried.

“I win no matter which leg gets cut first.”

“I wager the boy fights. He looks strong. He’ll fight.”

“Can’t fight with his arms locked behind his back.”

“Twenty says he is dead in less than a minute.”

“Done.”

The betting slowed to a trickle, then finished. The man who bought Ash stood to win a fortune if he lasted less than thirty seconds. It was time for the sport to begin. Roaring, the crowd surged toward him. Ash was lifted like a leaf on water, as many hands raised him and moved him. They placed him on the wooden ledge, ready to be pushed in when the timer called.

The crowd pulled back like a tide, watching … waiting.

Ash stood for a moment, wavering, getting his balance. He thought:
I am Ashton, Trueborn of Delian, and I am not afraid.
But the mantra didn’t work. He was terrified. For the last four years he had worried about dying from madness caused by the Dark Sankomin. Now it seemed that he wasn’t going to live long enough to face that fear. His heart pounded as he imagined tusks thrusting into him, his body lifeless, trampled into unrecognizable bits of cloth, blood and flesh.

“Wait! Release me. Give me a knife!” he yelled. “I can’t fight without a knife. I can’t fight in these chains!” Ash screamed at the top of his voice, burning with anger over the injustice of it all. His chance of survival was negligible. Unarmed, with chains holding his arms behind his back, he had Chinters, which was to say no chance at all.

He considered sending an Icom alert to the authorities. He could say Forseth was at this location. They would rush here then. He may serve an Indentureship, but at least he would be alive. Except that an Icom alert would make no difference, now. If he had known what the crowd intended … but no, everything was happening too fast. The authorities couldn’t arrive in time to save him.

“Let me fight,” Ash shouted, and the crowd finally heard him.

“Fair game! Fair game! Fair game!” The mob began to chant.

“A knife! Yes. Give him a knife. Not fair without a knife!”

Someone passed Ash a three inch blade — a thoughtful gesture, but useless with his hands bound behind him.

“Release me!” He attempted to display his handcuffs by raising his arms up as high as possible behind his back.

There was a loud roar of agreement as a wave of people put their hands in the air and moved toward Ash. The crowd was wild with excitement. The man was planning to fight. This was new. This would be something to see.

“Take off the shackles, take ‘em off, take ‘em off!” became the chant.

“Four and a quarter credits the slave lasts a minute with his hands free.”

“He can run faster without chains. Be a bit longer before the boar can strike. I want to change my bet. Five credits that the off-worlder lasts longer. Three to one.”

“Done!”

Bets were being taken once more, a storm of offers and counter offers, the odds changing. Ash’s new master seemed happy to comply with the demands of the crowd, removing the handcuffs. Ash’s shoulders were sore, his wrists were raw. The man grabbed Ash roughly by his tunic and pulled him down near him, face to face. His new owner wanted to speak privately, unheard above the yelling the crowd.

“Listen, off-worlder,” the man said his eyes hard and fierce. “I have a kill-pill here. You put it between your teeth. If you want a fast, painless death, bite it. I need you to die in less than thirty seconds. So do me a favor. Make us both happy and bite the pill.” With that advice he jammed a small red capsule firmly into Ash’s mouth.

Ash straightened. The ring remained around his neck, but his owner had removed the long heavy chain. His arms were no longer bound behind his back and he had a knife.

“Push him in! Push him in!” everyone screamed at once.

“Wait …!” a voice called.

“Push him. Push him. Push him in!” The chant continued.

“… I need to check the time.”

Ash squared his shoulders and held his chin high in a haughty, defiant demeanor. He scanned the multitude of ignorant Ferals, clenched his teeth and thought bitterly:
May the Deceiver take you all.
I am Ashton, Trueborn of Delian. I am not afraid.

With a knife in his hand and unshackled, the mantra worked.

His fear left him and time stood still.

Ash fell into a peculiar sort of hyper-awareness. Everything seemed to be in slow motion, as if the last moments of his life were going to proceed leisurely. Perhaps, knowing death was upon him, he was savoring the experience, truly living his life fully in these last few moments. Or perhaps everything had stilled as an apology for his premature demise, leaving him calmer than he had ever been in his life. He looked for Jani, for some empathy, for some human connection, but he couldn’t see her. There was no compassion in this crowd — only cold self-interest.

He experienced a strange sort of out-of-body disconnected feeling. He felt like a spectator to his own death.

The pit was in the middle of a field. It was impossible for him to run toward the beckoning safety of the woods; he’d be cut off by the bloodthirsty mob. The sky was dark and moonless, but the stars shone bright above the burning torches. Even without a breeze, the cool night air was biting. There would be heavy frost in the morning, he knew; it was doubtful that he would be alive to feel it. Off in the distance he could just see the lights of Tombay, a city he had hoped to escape to. He had visited once. That visit now seemed so long ago, like another lifetime.

If he was to die now, the last of his race, then he would at least do it well. Contemptuous of a coward’s way out, he spat out the lethal capsule. Only one expulsion of breath had passed since he had said his mantra. One tiny sigh, yet that moment had stretched eternally, off to infinity.

It had been all the time there was and would ever be … and yet no time at all.

Jana keep me
, he thought. With one last look, Ash leaped into the arena.

The crowd roared. Like a rushing wave, storm driven, they surged toward the pit.

The boar, seeing a new foe, gave a maddened snort. With a squeal of anger and a flash of hooves, the boar lunged, thrusting his tusks toward Ash with slashing, deadly precision. Ash moved. Quick and light as a flying bird, Ash leapt. He flew upward, soaring into the air, out of the boar’s way. Gracefully executing a forward roll, he landed securely on both feet.

It was close. He had moved just in time to avoid the boar’s razor sharp tusks.

“OOOOweeee! OOOOOweeee!” The noise erupted as if one loud voice. The mob yelled with rabid frenzy, carried away by the spectacular demonstration of Ash’s athletic evasion.

The off-worlder had escaped the first thrust.

The rank smell of fresh blood assailed Ash’s senses. The pit, in places, was ankle deep in gore. His stomach recoiled, but he continued a wide range of offensive and defensive movements. His katra disciplines were intuitive, and he thanked Jana that despite the ill health of his youth, he had persisted with regular training from early childhood.

Ash went in for the attack while the boar was still recovering, altering its course from that first charge. In two quick strides Ash leaped on the animal. Tensing his muscles, using all of his strength as well as both hands, he plunged his knife up to the handle, into the boar’s solid, sinewy shoulder.

“Ahhhhhhhh.” The crowd roared.

With a strength born of desperation, Ash attempted to maintain his position astride the boar’s back, but it was impossible. Swift and unpredictable, the animal changed directions and dislodged him. Ash’s feet fell to the floor of the arena and he was dragged, still holding the knife.

His wrists and arms were strained and jarred by the struggle, but he refused to relinquish the weapon. With a valiant effort he pulled the knife loose. On hands and knees, Ash found he was covered in gore past his wrists, buried in the blood, flesh and entrails of uncountable unfortunate creatures.

Ash scrambled now on all fours. His heart pounded wildly. Fear and adrenaline coursed through his veins in recognition of the danger he was in now that he was down. If he stayed on hands and knees much longer he would never get back up. He would die right here, right now in this arena. He heard a squeal and a grunt and with wolf-honed instincts, he moved. Jumping up and running sideways, his feet ran along the hard clay wall of the pit, the speed of his momentum defying gravity for an instant.

Ferocious with pain and rage, the animal spun around faster than Ash’s eye could follow.
Forsaken Worlds!
Ash cursed. It was fast, too fast. It sprinted full tilt and speared Ash in the shoulder before he had time to escape that slashing thrust.

Ash screamed.

“Ohhhhhhh!” yelled the crowd.

“The off-worlder has been tusked!” a woman said, with both revulsion and fascination in her high-pitched voice.

“OOOOweeee! I win! I win!” The dark-haired man yelled gleefully, the toddler on his shoulders almost falling off as he jumped up and down with delight.

“Ill-begotten mother-whore of Perdition,” another man swore.

A mad chorus of foul-mouthed cursing, resounding boos, hissing and profanity echoed from above the pit. It seemed that a number of people had lost money.

“First tusk is above the groin. What did I tell ya all?”

Ash wasn’t listening — he was concentrating on staying alive. Lucky for him, he had been able to turn slightly sideways, so that the boar’s long pink tusks only penetrated the outer portion of his flesh, lodging into the muscle of his shoulder and not skewering him from back to front as was intended. With an uncanny wolf-like agility, combined with a gut-level need for survival, Ash managed to spring away. He had jumped to momentary safety, attaining a small space apart from the boar once more.