The Hunter on Arena (4 page)

It seemed to him that he dreamed, but it was an odd dream, like nothing he had ever experienced before. It
seemed that he was floating bodiless, hovering just below the rough ceiling of the cave, looking down on himself as he slept.
As he watched, the walls seemed to open behind his somnolent body and a host of monsters crept forth. He counted sixteen in
all, each more hideous than the last. The wolfthing and crested lizard were there as well.

Strangely, there was no feeling of danger, rather, one of gentle concern, almost pity. He knew in some vague way that his
amorphous self had no way of communicating with his slumbering body, to warn it of danger, to urge it to waken, but somehow,
there was no feeling of need. As he watched, the creatures lifted his unresisting form between them and carried it away. As
they vanished, his vision dimmed and he knew no more.

Consciousness returned with a sudden, swift rush.
Braldt found that he was being carried down a long, brightly lit corridor constructed of the same smooth, shiny, metallic
substance as the room he had first entered in this gauntlet of dangers. He studied his captors from beneath his lids while
still feigning sleep. He could feel a number of hands or paws supporting his body, yet he could see only the two creatures
who carried his legs; he dared not open his eyes further for he did not wish to reveal that he had wakened.

Neither of those who gripped his legs were human. The thing on the left was squat and blocky with rough, warty skin the color
of ochre mud. Its head sat on its broad, muscular shoulders like a boulder. It had a brief, sloping forehead, tiny, round
eyes, and no chin to speak of. The entire front of its face was squeezed into a snout that ended in soft, flexible flanges
of flesh that probed the air restlessly. The pig-like creature wore two broad, leather straps crisscrossed over its chest
and shoulders, and narrow, leather bands held a variety of swords and knives which glinted sharply under the bright lights.
The handles were smooth and well worn with use. The creature wore nothing on its ruddy body other than a
small, leather loincloth, and its rust-colored flesh rippled with the play of muscles beneath the thick, lumpy skin.

The creature to its right was little better. This was another lizard-type being, but shorter and tougher looking than Braldt’s
first opponent. This one was dark brown in color; the horny, segmented plates that defined its various body parts were burnished
a deep mahogany as though the creature spent hours oiling and polishing itself. Its head was broad and flat, its eyes placed
on either side of the flat muzzle and hooded by layers of armored scales. The scaly muzzle was edged with sharp, triangular
fangs both top and bottom, and the jaws were held slightly agape, revealing a slit tongue that flickered in and out with every
breath. Its back was covered with the same heavy, ridged scales and bore a complex pattern ranging from a delicate shade of
cream to darkest brown. The mottled complexity of the shadowy pattern deceived the eye and Braldt guessed that it was designed
as protective camouflage for the creature’s natural habitat. It wore no clothing, and so far as Braldt could see, carried
no weapon. But its digits, all eight of them, were tipped with long, curved, sharp claws that could rip a man from chin to
belly as easily as it might gut a fish. Further, the top of its flat head, the length of its spine and broad tail, the crest
of its shoulders, and the backs of its hands all bore a prominent ridge of sharp spikes as sharp and dangerous as any knife.
The creature had no need for armament, its body provided all it would ever require.

Braldt could not see who belonged to any of the other hands that gripped him, but from the murmur of
voices around him, he knew that his initial count of sixteen was not far from the mark.

The voices told him nothing and revealed no new information, for they were a babble of unfamiliar sounds that made absolutely
no sense to him. He wondered how it was that they were able to understand each other, for no two of them seemed to utter the
same sorts of sounds. It was then, as the two creatures holding his legs turned to speak to each other, gesturing ahead, that
Braldt saw, for the first time, the tiny, silver circles embedded in the flesh between their eyes. It startled him so that
he jerked violently, and the swift movement of their passage faltered as his captors turned to stare at him with suspicion,
while reaching for their various weapons. Braldt sighed and allowed himself to go limp, pretending that his action had been
but an involuntary sleep motion. He could feel the weight of their gaze resting on him speculatively and he prayed they would
believe the ruse, for the odds were greatly against him.

They spoke among themselves and one of them laughed, a harsh, braying sound with no humor. Reassured, they continued on, jogging
along the narrow corridor, bearing him toward he knew not what. A short time later they stopped, and Braldt could feel an
air of nervousness, palpable in the small enclosure, rising from their bodies like the stink of fear. There was a shuffling
of feet, and then the armored beast banged upon the wall with his spiked fist. Bright light streamed outward as a door slid
open, words were exchanged, and they entered, all talk silenced, and Braldt could feel their tension
through their grip. He gathered himself, alarmed by their fear, ready to act if the need arose.

Then, abruptly, in response to another guttural command, he was deposited on a long, cold, metal slab with bright lights beating
down on him from the ceiling, and abandoned. The multitude of voices faded away, leaving him alone and unguarded, and strangely,
rather than relief, he felt a cold shiver of fear trace itself down his backbone. The beasts had meant him no real harm; they
were neutral parties in whatever game was being played, perhaps even unwilling pawns themselves. With their departure, Braldt
felt even more alone than before.

He calmed his mind and forced himself to empty it of fear, allowing his senses to probe the room. There was a soft, continuous
murmur, not human, not alive. There was the susurration of breathing, some hoarse and shallow, some soft and deep. Occasionally,
there was a thump, then a deep hum followed by a circulating of fresh air. There was no hint of movement. Puzzled by the strange
sequence of events, Braldt sighed deeply, then sprawled to one side as though stirred by a dream, allowing his forearm to
come to rest along his cheek. With his face thus hidden from view, he opened his eyes and blinked against the bright light
flooding the room.

When his vision cleared, he saw that he was lying on a silvery, metal table in the middle of a large room filled with numerous
identical tables. Lying atop many of the surfaces were a multitude of forms. It was a startling sight, one he could barely
comprehend, for while some of the figures were human, or at least humanlike, he could not identify any of them. They were
unlike any
tribe he knew. Others, however, were definitely not human. At first he thought they were all dead, but then as his mind grew
accustomed to the sight, he realized that they were not dead, merely sleeping or unconscious.

A low moan rose from the table next to his and his eyes were drawn to the tall, slender figure of the woman who lay upon the
cold surface. She stirred restlessly; her body, clad in some strange, silvery material that fit her like a shadow, heaved
with agitation as she fought her way back to wakefulness. Her dark hair was long and thick, and as she turned on the hard
table it escaped its bindings and flowed over the edge, nearly brushing the floor. A delicate hand, the fingers long and tapered,
the nails neatly shaped into ovals, relaxed, opening like a flower, exposing the fragile wrist with a heartbreaking vulnerability.
Braldt found himself drawn to this unknown woman, affected by this unconscious display of helplessness and wishing to protect
her.

She stirred again as though rousing under his gaze, and a low moan escaped her narrow, well-drawn lips. There was the sound
of footsteps, and then much to Braldt’s astonishment, two of the hated hard ones, those mechanized men who were the tools
of the “Masters,” appeared, laying their metallic hands on the woman, pressing her down against the table as full consciousness
returned.

One of the inhuman creatures began to draw a set of straps across the woman’s body while his companion pressed down on her
chest, pinning her against the cold metal. So great was the pressure of this single hand that she could do nothing but curse
and beat upon its hard
body with her fists. Braldt knew from bitter experience just how futile such actions were. The bodies of the hard ones were
far too tough to be intimidated by the blows of soft, human flesh.

Braldt considered the wisdom of action for a brief moment, knowing that caution was probably the wisest course, lying low
and watching to see what became of the woman. But so great was his hatred of the hard ones that he was unable to control his
emotions, and wisdom was replaced by the need to act. He leaped from the table without further thought and flung himself on
the back of the hard one closest to him, bearing it to the floor with the unexpected burden of his weight. The metallic figure
struck the table as it fell, causing the table to roll several feet, and Braldt realized belatedly that all the tables were
on wheels.

The movement disturbed the second hard one’s balance and it stumbled, momentarily losing its hold on the woman. She seized
the opportunity instantly, leaping from the table with an agility that startled Braldt as much as the animal-like roar of
fury that burst from those same shapely lips he had so recently admired. The woman was a blur of motion as she seized the
only weapon at hand, the cart she had so recently rested upon, and began battering it into her opponent. It was not much of
a weapon, but she was aided by the element of surprise and she took the hard one off guard as well as off balance and never
allowed him to regain the upper hand.

Braldt would have liked to have watched the woman. He had never heard of a woman warrior, and her technique was unusual to
say the least, but his own
opponent gave him no opportunity for such a leisure activity, as it was already rising to its knees.

Imitating the woman’s plan of attack, Braldt hurled himself on the hard one’s back, driving it to the floor once again with
his knees planted between its shoulders. He seized the smooth roundness that was its head and twisted ’til it turned at an
angle that would have broken a man’s neck. There was no welcome crack of vertebrae, instead, a thin, human voice trickled
out of a round, silver plate set in the metallic head, shocking Braldt with the unexpected sounds so that he nearly lost his
hold.

The voice was imperious, commanding, and speaking in a language he could understand. “Cease your attack! Stand back and no
harm will come to you. Do as you are told, immediately!”

Braldt was accustomed to obeying Auslic, the chief and leader of his tribe. He was also accustomed to doing the bidding of
his commander, but he felt no such allegiance to the disembodied voice. It only served to anger him further, for this must
be the voice of the “Masters,” those who contrived to destroy his world to satisfy their own selfish needs. Locking the creature’s
head between arm and body, he pried at the silver disc until it came free, trailing the multicolored entrails which Batta
Flor had called wires, behind it. Braldt wrapped them in his fist and yanked them free. The voice squawked a single protest,
then fell silent. Braldt banged the metallic head against the floor, maintaining and increasing the awkward angle until at
last some critical connection separated and the head flopped forward. Limbs constricted,
fingers clutched, and its metal heels beat a staccato tattoo upon the floor as it shivered its way toward death.

Braldt looked upon his work with satisfaction as the thing slowly died. Fingers closed upon his arm and he jumped back, thinking
that more of the metal men had joined the battle, but it was only the woman, staring at him with impatient eyes, her mouth
stretched taut into a grim line of anxiety. Looking around the room with alarm, she beckoned for him to follow as she turned
and ran toward a door set in the far wall.

Braldt followed her without hesitation, for as the heat of battle faded from his mind he realized the folly of remaining.
The Masters knew that something was wrong, it would only be a matter of time before they were pursued.

If only he could find Batta Flor and Keri!

As they made their way across the room, they heard the pounding of steps in the corridor at the other end of the room. The
woman seized his wrist tightly, banged her fist twice upon a silver plate set into the wall at head level, and pulled him
through the door as it hissed open. Once through, she turned and pounded once on an identical plate set in the wall on the
opposite side. The door hissed closed. A small, metal object no higher than knee height, stood a short distance away. The
woman grabbed it, broke off the dish that was attached to the slender column, and began to pry at the edge of the plate that
operated the door. Angry cries could be heard approaching on the far side.