The Hunter on Arena (9 page)

Randi showed no interest whatsoever in the swords, dismissing them with but a single glance and then hurrying toward a glass-fronted
case displaying an odd assortment of dull, black objects whose use Braldt could not even guess at. She lifted the glass top
and reverently took out one of the bulky objects, gripping it with her hand and inserting her index finger into a small hole.
She hefted it appreciatively and sighted down its length, thumbing back a small protrusion on its upper surface and nodding
happily.

Marin had made his way to a rack of lances, all tipped with wicked-looking metal points and barbs. He tried a number of them,
dropping them on the ground with a growl when they failed to meet his approval. At last he found one that satisfied him, fashioned
of dark wood, as dark as his own gleaming skin and longer than he himself by half a body length. It was tipped with a large,
metal point and vicious-looking barbs were embedded in its sides for more than half its span; the base of the lance was sheathed
in metal. Nor was the big man finished. He stalked the aisles of weapons and accessories, choosing a small, metal trident
which he tucked into his belt like a dagger and a rope net weighted at the edges with heavy, metal discs.

Septua was sitting crosslegged on the floor crooning happily, sifting through a pile of objects like a child playing in a
sandbox. He had accumulated a sling and a
large sack filled with round, metal marbles, a wooden blowpipe, two boxes of sharp-tipped, feather-edged darts, an unusual
dagger with a twisted corkscrew of a blade, and a handful of prickly, metal things, each no larger than a thumbnail that looked
like sandburs with wicked hooks on each point. Chuckling to himself, the dwarf scooped up the strange items and poured them
into a leather sack which he knotted and hung around his waist, with the exception of the dagger which he carefully sheathed
and attached to his belt.

Braldt could not help but wonder what the purpose was of arming them with the weapons of their choice, for what was to prevent
them from attacking the guards? But no sooner had the last of them made their choices than the guards moved in, surrounding
them on all sides and relieving them of their weapons at swordpoint. Marin growled and raised his spear, but in an instant
four swords pricked the skin of his throat.

Then the captain, with his sword at Marin’s throat, said, “Do not throw your life away for nothing. The weapons will be given
back to you in good time. It is nothing to me if you choose to die. If you want to make a fight of it, we will gladly spill
your blood here and now.”

Marin hesitated and then, a contemptuous sneer twisting his lips, he dropped the lance to the ground with a clatter. Brushing
the swords aside, he swaggered toward the door, forcing the guards to hurry after him.

This proved to be the end of their outing and they were marched back to their cell following the curve of the passageway as
well as a labyrinth of dark, twisting corridors. It was apparent that the arena and its surrounding
environs consisted of a far larger area than any of them had realized.

Throughout the entire journey, there had been the rumble and shriek of wild animals, sometimes distant and at other times
seeming quite close. Several times they had intersected corridors that sloped down, and the sounds were loudest of all at
these junctures as was the stink of wet fur and offal.

“I don’t understand,” Braldt said to Randi as the door to the cell clanged shut behind them and they settled onto the cold,
stone floor. In their absence, the water bucket and the flea-infested blanket had been reclaimed by the inhabitants of the
cell.

“What don’t you understand?” Septua asked, casually resting his hand on Randi’s thigh.

“I don’t understand why they took us through all that nonsense. What is it they have planned for us?” she replied with a frown,
lifting the dwarf’s hand off her thigh and placing it firmly in his lap.

“I think we are to fight, to provide entertainment for these so-called Masters,” Braldt said slowly. “Remember what they said,
we are to fight or perish.”

Marin smiled, an unpleasant grimace with no hint of humor in it, and he cracked his knuckles as though wishing it were someone’s
neck. “I will fight for them gladly,” he said, the points of his teeth visible behind his bared lips. “And maybe I will kill
a few of them along the way.”

Septua’s mobile face brightened at the thought of reclaiming his deadly assortment of toys and he nodded his approval. “When
we are armed, they cannot stand up
to us, I think. After we kill a few of them, then we will escape!”

A shrill cackle interrupted their conversation. A small, withered figure wrapped in rags, its gender and even its race indeterminable,
wiped its rheumy eyes as spittle drooled from its toothless mouth. “Escape you say? Why, you fools, don’t you know that the
only way you’re likely to escape this place is feet first, if you still got any feet left when they be done with you?”

“What are you saying?” Marin demanded, seizing the ragged creature and shaking it violently. The old man’s hand streaked inside
its mantle of filthy rags and withdrew a homemade blade, slashing Marin across the wrist. Marin released the stinking bundle
with a curse and clamped his hand on the wound which was already coursing with streams of bright blood.

“You are fools,” the old one said bitterly as he scrambled backward out of Marin’s reach. “No one gets out of here alive.
No one. We exist only for the pleasure of the Masters. When you cease to amuse them you will die just like all the others.
They will feed you and dress you and arm you and set you against each other. You will vow undying friendship and loyalty to
one another, but in the end you will betray each other. Some few of you will remain loyal and those will die soonest. The
others, those with the least amount of loyalty or trust, will live longer, but in the end, they will die, too. Death is the
only escape from the arena.”

“It cannot be true, nor would I believe it had I not
seen him with my own eyes,” the man said in a whisper as he turned from the narrow slit in the wall and sagged against it
in despair.

His companion stepped forward and peered through the narrow crack, no more than a chink between the stones unless one knew
what to look for. He wore a troubled expression on his lean face. “Perhaps we are mistaken. Maybe we are imagining it simply
because we wish it to be so,” he said in a low voice.

“Think what you are saying, Erte. Why would we wish to see Jocobe here in this place, a prisoner, fodder for the games? No
one misses him more than I, but surely he is better off in exile, far better anywhere than here. To be here is death. And
if it is Jocobe, where is Mirim? No, I think we are deceived. This is merely one who looks like Jocobe through some trick
of fate.”

“I have never known another race that looked like us,” Erte said softly, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We are unique
in the universe as well you know, Brit. This is Jocobe; it can be no other. The question is, what shall we do about it?”

“We cannot let them put him into the arena,” Brit
said despondently, sinking back against the wall. “Dare we risk rescuing him? How could he have fallen into their hands a
second time? I thought he was safe from harm on that speck of a world. How does he come to be here?”

“It has been twenty years and more since we saw him last,” said Erte. “Anything could have happened on that distant world.
One of us had best attend a Council meeting; they cannot keep from gloating, and one of them will say something and tell us
what we wish to know.”

“They will not talk with us there,” Brit said bitterly.

“No, Brit, you are wrong. That is precisely why they
will
talk,” argued Erte. “They always suspected that we were sympathetic to Jocobe and Mirim’s cause, even if they could not prove
it. They will not miss this opportunity to let us know that he is in their grasp again.”

“But how, Erte, how could it have happened? All these years, with all the defeats, at least I have been able to think that
they were safe and well, living their lives in peace, that our efforts have not all been in vain. My little sister… and the
child? What of the child?”

“Calm yourself, my friend. The years have not been entirely in their favor, we have had our victories too. Kiefer’s way has
not been entirely free of strife. Jocobe and Mirim will be proud to learn what we have accomplished. Nor are we alone or powerless
in the Council these days. There are many who side with us and many more who would do so if only they dared. The day is fast
approaching when we will be strong enough to challenge Kiefer openly rather than work from behind the scenes.”

“We cannot let them have Jocobe,” Brit said resolutely. “Somehow we must rescue him. He is not a young man. He would not survive
the arena. Somehow we must save him.”

Erte opened his mouth to speak, to remind his friend of the difficulty and danger of such a task, but seeing the steely resolve
in Brit’s cold, blue eyes, he could only nod in silent agreement. She was right. Somehow it would be done.

Batta Flor wakened with a bad taste in his mouth. His
tongue was coated with foulness as though a merebear had hibernated there. He opened his eyes slowly and groaned as a bright,
red light struck him, driving shards of crimson sunlight into his brain. A shadow fell over him, dulling the light somewhat,
and sounds echoed inside his head. He lifted a large hand and shaded his eyes, blinking against the light, trying to bring
the figure into focus. Distantly, he took note of the absence of strength in his body, but somehow it failed to concern him.
He squinted upward.

“Batta Flor, don’t you recognize me?” The voice spoke, the lips opening and shutting in a comic manner, and then slowly, the
words themselves filtered through and took shape inside his mind. He grunted and lay back, closing his eyes with a sigh. His
hand thumped against the ground, too heavy to hold upright.

Small hands seized his shoulders and shook him; a flea trying to move a boulder. He ignored them and began to drift back into
the comfortable, muzzy darkness that had held him for so long.

But the voice turned insistent, and the hands on his body refused to relinquish him to sleep, tugging and pulling,
yanking him this way and that, forcing his head upright, even prying his eyelids open and yelling into his face. What did
they want of him? Why would they not let him be?

The thing would not go away and now it was joined by a second creature who yapped and yipped in a most annoying manner. The
sounds were muted, muffled as though they came from far away, but it was hard to ignore them, knowing they were there. The
smaller creature seized hold of his hand, sinking its double rows of spiked teeth into his tough, dark skin and began to pull.
Batta Flor could see the dots of blood welling between the beast’s teeth. He could see the bright, red trickles of blood as
they matted his thick fur and dripped onto the ground. Some part of his mind that was still functioning recoiled in anticipation
of the pain, but there was none. He felt no pain. He felt nothing.

The… girl, yes, that was what she was! His mind wrapped itself sluggishly around the word. The girl stared in horror at the
blood and tried to pull the beast away without success. Tears began to course down her cheeks.

It was this that stirred him at last, the depth of the girl’s distress. Somehow he had to let her know that it didn’t matter,
that he was not hurt.

He sat up slowly, and closing his fingers around the muzzle of the yapping creature, brought pressure to bear at the base
of its jaws. A startled look filled the beast’s eyes and its jaws popped open. Batta Flor extracted his hand and examined
it casually, inspecting the damage calmly as though it had happened to someone else. Blood still dripped from the neat row
of punctures, but his skin was quite thick, and as there was no pain, he felt no
concern. He shrugged and tried to smile to reassure the girl, but she did not appear to be comforted at all. Instead, she
cried all the harder and buried her face against his chest.