The Hunter on Arena (30 page)

The old Madrelli was speaking again. “I want you to explain what it is that is happening,” he said. “Tell them why you are
here, what you have done, and what it
is that you are suggesting.” Leif could do nothing but comply. He turned and faced the odd crowd, the furred Madrelli and
the enraged, captive natives led by the one with the scarred face. He swallowed hard. If he had any hope of living, he would
have to use all of his skills to convince them that transmitting to Rototara was their only chance for life. Speaking had
never come easy. He gulped and began.

Much to his surprise, they had all been in favor of the plan, some of them openly enthusiastic, others merely stroking their
weapons and smiling to themselves. It seemed that many of them had grievances to settle. The primitives had been hardest to
convince, but in the end, it was the man with the burned face who had come to his aid. “Down with the false gods!” he had
cried, waving his spear in the air. “Death to the priests!”

Leif Arndtson did not know what priests he was speaking of, but they could look out for themselves as far as he was concerned.
He was too young to die and a part of him began to get angry that he had been sent to this place. Maybe they had not thought
that he would return. Maybe he had a few debts of his own to settle!

He led the odd group of savages and primitives to the transmitter, and after a brief message of instruction, began to send
them through two and three at a time, all of them gripping their weapons in eager anticipation of what was to come.

Braldt, Keri, and the lupebeast pup had wandered through the confusing labyrinth of corridors, searching for the outer doors
as commanded by Saviq. It was the pup who
found them, lifting his head and sniffing, then whimpering and hurrying off down a corridor on his own. Braldt and Keri had
followed.

They were huge, double doors with no handles or method of opening, except for the silver plate set into the wall. There was
an odd sound coming from the far side of the door, a scratching, scrabbling noise. Braldt stared at the door, undecided, wondering
what he would find if he opened the door. What were the true ones? Only one way to find out. He gave Keri a hug of reassurance,
then struck the silver door plate with his fist. The door hissed open and there on the other side were multitudes of reptiles,
as tall as Braldt and broad, banded with sheaths of muscle, claws and fangs bared, ready for battle.

“Are you the true ones?” asked Braldt, backing up and raising his hands to show that he meant them no harm. Beast growled
and showed his own fangs, but was wise enough to remain behind Braldt. Keri, oddly enough, seemed to feel no fear.

“We are the true ones,” the reptiles said in unison, bobbing and weaving their horny snouts, their eyes bright and shiny,
fixed and unblinking on Braldt. Their scales were washed by the warm, crimson rain, slick and sleek and gleaming. They seemed
to revel in its caress. With a start, Braldt realized that they were indeed the true ones, native Rototarans somehow brought
forth by the rains, ready to reclaim their world.

“We are not your enemy,” Braldt said simply. “We were sent by one named Saviq who commanded us to admit you. We will not stand
in your way, but know that there are many inside who were brought here against
their will and wish for nothing other than the right to return to their own worlds. Grant them mercy.”

The true ones did not answer, but swept past Braldt, Keri, and Beast without a second glance. Their numbers were endless as
they filed through the open doors, slithering and sliding on the wet, red earth, their heavy tails gummed with sediment. They
plodded forward in a relentless wave and Braldt felt a moment of fear and pity for the unsuspecting Scandis. It soon passed.

Other doors were found and opened, and more and more masses of true ones trooped through, all fixated with a single-minded
purpose, that of reclaiming their world.

There were no more doors left to open. The sounds of alarm and furious battle that had emanated from the center of the arena
had diminished. Braldt and Keri wandered from corridor to corridor, searching for the transmission room, wondering if they
were too late.

A door opened, one of the hundreds of thousands, all of which looked alike, and Randi appeared, a worried look on her narrow
face. She saw Braldt and her eyes lit up. She smiled and gripped him hard, all but ignoring Keri.

“I was afraid I would miss you. Allo and I waited. Septua, he wanted to leave, so we sent him back.” Her mouth twisted in
the familiar, wry grin that had brightened their darkest moments.

“No real loss,” Braldt replied with an answering grin, gripping Randi as well, knowing somehow that he would never see her
again.

“I hope you find everything you search for in this
life,” he said, feeling the warmth of her and knowing that her leaving would leave an empty place in his heart. Their eyes
met. She raised her hand and held it to his face, then nodded once. “You too,” she whispered. “Be happy.”

Then she was gone. She looked back at him once, then nodded to the Scandi who manned the controls of the transmitter. He adjusted
a dial, punched in some numbers, then touched a single red button and Randi faded from sight and was gone.

Allo had waited as well. Their words were brief, the emotion high. It was hard knowing they would never meet again.

Allo was gone. Randi and Septua were gone. No one remained except the Scandi at the controls. Braldt cleared his throat and
blinked back the tears that had suddenly filled his eyes. Now he was able to see that the one at the controls was none other
than the man on the dais, the one who had tried to encourage him with silent messages of hope. Braldt opened his mouth to
speak, but before he could say a word, there was a flash of light and a group of people, Scandis, Madrelli, and a man, horribly
scarred and without hair, tumbled through the transmitter and fell into the room.

Braldt was speechless. He and Keri and the Scandi stared at the jumble of odd companions in astonishment. Keri was the first
to recover. “Carn!” she cried, rushing to his side. Braldt realized with a shock the hideously deformed man was indeed Cam,
his brother. And there, too, was Uba Mintch. Where had they come from? Before he could ask, there was another flash of light
and
a fully armed contingent of Scandis came through, all but falling over the Madrelli and Carn. They stumbled forward as another
flash lit the small room and more Madrelli, three wounded Scandis and more of Braldt’s tribe fell into the room. Voices and
weapons were raised in anger, and for a moment it looked as though fighting might break out among the three disparate groups.

Chaos and confusion reigned as more and more transmissions filled the room with seething, yelling, angry beings from different
worlds, flinging them at each other’s feet, crowding them out of the small room, all of them jockeying for control and none
succeeding.

Finally, it seemed that the transmissions were ended. The corridors were filled with the various tribes who had sorted themselves
out at last and were glowering at one another and hurling insults. But no actual fighting had begun, for they were evenly
matched and no one group knew what to expect if fighting actually began. What if one group allied with another? It was too
uncertain. It was easier to throw insults. Nor was it safe to turn and run. It was an intergalactic stand-off.

The man at the controls rose. “Brandtson?” he asked, tentatively. “Then the message did reach you. I—I didn’t know if it would.”

An old man, taller and bulkier than Braldt, his once blond hair shot with silver and worn long upon his shoulders, stepped
forward. “Jorund! That message, it came from you! Is it true? Is he really here, the one they call Braldt?”

Braldt stepped forward, his steps hesitant, feeling at
a loss for the first time in his life. “Sir, I am the one known as Braldt. And you are the father of my father?”

The two men stared at each other, the longing apparent in their eyes. Keri looked from one to the other and saw how much alike
they were. There was no mistaking that they were kin.

Braldt started to speak. He took a step forward, and then the transmitter seemed to explode outward, deafening them with the
power of the force. A portion of a body flew through the remains of the device and landed on the floor with a bloody thump.

A loud outcry went up among the Madrelli and Braldt’s tribe; a sob, screams of rage and deepest despair.

Braldt picked himself up from the floor and looked around him in complete confusion. What had happened?

“Our world is gone,” said the thing that had once been his brother. “You have killed our world, you and your kind.”

“What is he saying?” Braldt asked, turning to Jorund and Brandtson, refusing to believe that Carn could be speaking the truth.

Brandtson turned to a large display on the wall, studied it for a moment, then turned to Braldt. “There has been a disturbance;
it appears that K7 is gone,” he said heavily. There was a loud outcry at his words and the Madrelli and Braldt’s tribe surged
forward, only to be held at bay by Brandtson’s men.

“We are not your enemy!” cried Brandtson, holding up his hands and trying to be heard. “We have risked much and lost much
in our lives and we are here to aid you. We are allies!”

It was difficult convincing them of the truth of his words, but eventually, since they had nothing to lose and everything
to gain, they allowed themselves to be convinced.

“Let us end this fight that has cost us our children and the children of our children,” said Brandtson. “There can be no victory
based upon defeat.”

“What will become of us even if the fighting ends?” asked Keri, her face streaked with tears and her heart aching with the
thought of all she had lost. “Our world and all that we love is gone. You and others like you have killed it. How can we ever
forget?”

“There is another world,” Brandtson replied at last, his voice gruff with emotion and unshed tears glittering in his eyes.
“It is our world, that which we have carved out of the universe for those of our kind. It is a beautiful world. It is Valhalla.
After all that we have done to you, all that has happened, it is only fitting that it become your world as well.”

“But, Brandtson… how, there are many who will oppose you,” stammered Jorund, staring at Brandtson as though he had lost his
mind. “It can never be.”

“It must be,” Brandtson said firmly as he took Braldt’s hand in his own then topped it with the shiny scarred hand of the
embittered Cam and the furred hand of the old Madrelli, “there can be no other way.”

Once, Braldt the Hunter was a warrior lord of his Ice Age tribe—now he is a gladiatorial slave, forged to fight
death duels for the amusement of unseen Masters on planet Arena.

To escape, Braldt needs answers.

But he can gain information from his captors only if the Hunter and his team of multiworld battlers win endless
combats against hideous alien monsters.

And to survive, Braldt must become a mindless, feral killing machine, forever unable to ask questions—or even
dream
about escape…