Tyrant of Jarl (Rift Warrior Book 4), page 22
“Excellent! For your first bout—a simple warm-up.” He gestured, and one of the bulkier prisoners was shoved forward into the pit. A worker of perhaps thirty, fat but strong, with the calloused hands of someone who’d worked hard his entire life.
“Weapons, gentlemen,” the Tyrant prompted.
The worker snatched a metal pipe from the rack. I selected a wooden staff, its balance decent despite the crude construction.
“Begin!” the Tyrant commanded.
My opponent circled me warily, pipe held in a white-knuckled grip. He gave me a grin that was missing a tooth or two.
“I’ll pull my swings if you do,” I whispered. “How about we put on a show without getting seriously hurt?”
His blubbery lips curled. Porky wasn’t giving me a vibe of agreeableness. When he lunged, it was easy to dodge. I countered with a strike that looked impressive but pulled short of doing real damage. Finally, however, he landed a good one on me. It might have cracked a rib. I had to strike for real before he got lucky.
A quick feint, then my wooden weapon connected with a thick skull.
Crack! The workman slumped to the deck.
“Victory to Tanner,” the Tyrant announced, sounding disappointed by the lack of blood. “Remove the loser.”
Two robot guards entered the pit and dragged him away.
“That was subpar, Mr. Tanner,” the Tyrant observed. “Let’s increase the difficulty.”
A mechanical hum filled the arena as sections of the floor reconfigured. Some areas rose, creating elevated platforms of varying heights. Others slid away completely, revealing water tanks beneath the deck. Within minutes, the simple fighting pit had become a complex, multi-level battleground with water hazards.
“Three opponents this time, I think,” the Tyrant decided.
The next bout was against three prisoners simultaneously—a toothless brute of a woman with a makeshift spear was joined by two men with metal pipes. They coordinated well, suggesting previous arena experience. I was forced to use every trick in my arsenal, taking hits I couldn’t avoid while delivering precise strikes to disable rather than kill.
The elevated platforms made for treacherous footing, especially when wet. Twice I nearly fell into the water tanks. The third time, I used it deliberately, luring one opponent onto a narrow walkway before sweeping his legs, sending him plunging into the chest-deep water below.
By the end, I had a split lip and bruised ribs, but all three opponents were down. None dead, all disabled with carefully placed strikes to joints or nerve clusters.
The Tyrant clapped slowly. “You demonstrate admirable restraint, Mr. Tanner. But restraint won’t save you in the next round.”
The robot guards cleared the arena, reconfiguring it once again. This time, the water drained away, replaced by uneven, rocky terrain. The arena now resembled the frozen surface of Jarl, complete with slippery ice patches.
“Enough prisoners,” the Tyrant announced. “Let’s see how you fare against professionals.”
Three enforcers entered the arena. Unlike the prisoners, they wore light body armor and carried shock batons—non-lethal but extremely painful weapons I’d experienced on more than one colony world. They moved with military precision, spreading out to surround me.
“No weapons for the prisoner this round,” the Tyrant added, as a robot removed my staff from my grip.
Great. Three trained fighters with weapons and armor against me, unarmed and already nursing injuries. The odds were getting worse by the minute.
The enforcers treated me like a feral dog. They attacked in sequence, one drawing my attention while another struck from the flank. The shock baton caught me across the shoulders, sending electricity coursing through my body. I stumbled, nearly fell, then rolled away from a follow-up strike.
The artificial terrain provided both challenge and opportunity. I used a slick ice patch to slide beneath one enforcer’s guard, delivering a punch to his kidney that folded him over. Before his companions could react, I’d relieved him of his shock baton.
Now that I was armed, the fight became more even. I blocked another baton with mine, the weapons crackling where they met. The enforcer tried to press his advantage, but I stepped inside his guard, smashing the butt of my baton into his face mask. The reinforced plastic cracked, and the enforcer went down.
The third proved to be more of a handful. He kept his distance, using the uneven terrain to maintain separation. I was forced to pursue, taking more hits than I landed. My muscles ached from the repeated electrical shocks, and sweat stung the cuts on my face.
Finally, I feigned a stumble on an ice patch. When the enforcer moved in for the kill, I pivoted, converting the fall into a spinning kick that caught him behind the knee. As he dropped, I brought the shock baton down on his exposed neck, where the armor didn’t quite cover. He convulsed and went still.
There was actual applause from the spectator section now. The Tyrant watched impassively, fingers steepled before him.
“Impressive improvisation,” he commented. “But how do you fare against opponents who don’t feel pain?”
A door opened at the far end of the arena, and two combat model robots entered. They were older models, not as advanced as the Tyrant’s personal guards, but still deadly. Each was armed differently—one had a long shock staff and a capture net, the other had metal pincers designed to clamp onto a man’s neck.
“These units have been observing your fighting style,” the Tyrant explained. “That was the real purpose of the previous bouts—they needed to learn.”
They came at me, their movements fluid but predictable. I dodged the first attack from the net—which was swung but not released—I then slipped behind an elevated rock formation. The shock staff followed, weapon extending to full length.
I parried with my stolen shock baton, the impact numbing my arm. The robot adjusted instantly, its next strike coming from an unexpected angle. The staff caught me across the ribs, electricity arcing through my already-abused muscles.
Rolling away, I found myself face-to-face with the pincer robot. Its claws snapped shut inches from my face as I threw myself backward. I landed hard, the breath knocked from my lungs.
There was no time to recover. The net was already descending. I kicked upward, catching the edge of the weighted mesh, redirecting it toward the pincer robot. The net entangled it, and while its pincers snapped, the weights wrapped around the mechanical limbs.
One down, temporarily. The shock staff robot pressed its advantage, driving me back toward the edge of a water tank that hadn’t fully drained. An idea formed.
I retreated deliberately, letting the robot follow. When my back hit the edge of the tank, I waited until the last possible moment before diving aside. The robot’s momentum carried it forward, into the ankle-deep water.
“Hah!” I shouted, driving my shock baton into the water.
Electricity arced across the surface. The robot spasmed, systems overloading, then collapsed in a shower of sparks.
The other robot had freed itself from the net and approached more cautiously. I was tiring, and my moves were growing slower. The robot sensed weakness, pressing the attack with its pincers extended.
I feigned another retreat, drawing it toward its fallen comrade. At the last moment, I snatched up the still-crackling shock staff from the water, ignoring the pain as electricity coursed up my arm. With both weapons, I launched a desperate counterattack.
The robot blocked the staff but missed the baton. The weapon buried itself in the joint where the pincer arm connected to the torso. Sparks flew as critical systems shorted out. The robot staggered, pincers opening and closing randomly, before collapsing.
I stood among the mechanical wreckage, breathing hard. Blood dripped from a dozen small cuts. My muscles trembled from exertion and electrical shock.
“Bravo, Mr. Tanner,” the Tyrant called. “Few have defeated multiple units with customized programming. But we’ve saved the best for last.”
The far doors opened again. This time, a single figure entered—a big man in full enforcer armor, carrying an ironwood axe. He seemed somewhat familiar, even partially hidden by his helmet.
“I believe you’ve met Enforcer Klaus before,” the Tyrant said. “He’s been looking forward to a rematch since your last encounter.”
Damn, I didn’t recall him being so massive—a mountain of a man. Klaus removed his helmet, revealing a badly scarred face. He now had one eye that was milky white, blinded. The other burned with hatred.
“Remember me?” he asked with a deep rumbling growl.
I remembered. He was one of the enforcers I’d fought when first arriving on Jarl—the one who’d survived. I’d gotten a distant glimpse of him once after that too—when I was being hunted.
“Yeah, I remember you,” I said. “At least I remember your big ass running the hundred-yard-dash in the other direction. Chicken shit.”
He spat on the arena floor. “Your rebellion took my eye, criminal. I’m going to take your life.”
The Tyrant leaned forward in his seat. “Our final bout, ladies and gentlemen. The rebel hero against the loyal enforcer. Begin!”
Klaus charged with surprising speed for someone his size. His ironwood axe whistled through the air, missing my head by centimeters as I ducked. The weapon’s edge bit deep into a rock formation behind me, showering us with fragments.
I tried to counter with the shock baton, but Klaus was already pulling the axe free, pivoting for another strike. I was forced to retreat, giving ground across the uneven terrain.
“Now who’s running away?” Klaus taunted.
I didn’t waste breath on a response. Klaus had reach and power, but his blind side created a vulnerability. I circled to his right, forcing him to turn constantly to keep me in view.
His next swing went wide, the axe’s momentum throwing him slightly off-balance. I darted in, landing two quick strikes with the shock baton against his armored torso. The electricity made him grunt but didn’t slow him down.
He swung the axe in a horizontal arc that would have cut me in half if it connected. I backpedaled, tripped on a rock, and went down hard.
Klaus was on me in an instant, axe raised for a killing blow. I rolled sideways as the weapon crashed into the arena floor, sparks flying where metal struck stone.
Back on my feet, I reassessed. The shock baton wasn’t doing enough damage through his armor. I needed a different approach.
The water puddles from the previous round gave me an idea.
I retreated toward the partially-drained tank, Klaus stalking after me. His compromised field of view made him cautious on the uneven terrain, testing each step before committing.
“The great rebel,” he sneered. “Not so tough without your surprise attacks. I’m going to hang your head from the gates of Northaven.”
“Catch me first,” I replied, backing into an inch of water.
Klaus followed, confident of his inevitable victory. The water splashed around his boots as he advanced.
Lunging forward—inside the arc of his swing—I grabbed the axe’s shaft below the head.
We struggled for control, his heavy strength slowly forcing the blade toward my neck. I couldn’t win this contest of pure power.
So, I changed the game.
I twisted away from his leverage and crouched, still gripping the axe, and plunged the shock baton into the water at our feet.
Electricity coursed through the puddle. My rubber-soled prison shoes provided minimal insulation, but Klaus’ metal-reinforced enforcer boots conducted the current perfectly.
His body went rigid. The ironwood axe, with its metal head and core, became a perfect conductor, channeling the electricity up his arms.
I held on despite the pain, keeping the circuit completed until the shock baton’s power cell gave out. When it finally died, Klaus collapsed backward into the water, smoke rising from his armor joints.
I stood shakily, dropping the burned-out baton. My hands were blistered from the electrical feedback, and every muscle in my body screamed in protest.
But I was still standing. Klaus wasn’t.
The arena fell silent. Even the Tyrant seemed momentarily speechless.
Finally, he rose to his feet, clapping slowly. “Magnificent. Truly magnificent. I haven’t been so entertained in months!”
The spectators uncertainly joined in the applause, some more enthusiastically than others. I noticed Captain Jern among them, her face carefully neutral.
“Take Enforcer Klaus to medical,” the Tyrant ordered. “He may yet be salvageable.”
Robot guards entered the arena, removing Klaus’ twitching form. Others approached me but kept a respectful distance.
“You’ve exceeded expectations, Mr. Tanner,” the Tyrant said. “Few survive the full progression of arena challenges on their first day.”
“Glad I could entertain.”
“Oh, you did more than entertain. You’ve excited me, proving your value.” His smile was cold. “Tomorrow, we’ll see how you fare against something truly awful.”
I was too exhausted to respond with anything clever. The robot guards surrounded me, escorting me back toward the prisoner holding area.
As I passed the spectator section, Jern caught my eye. She gave an almost imperceptible nod—acknowledgment of a plan proceeding, or perhaps it was only simple respect for my survival.
The Tyrant’s words followed me out. “Rest well, Mr. Tanner. You’ve earned a reprieve—and proper medical attention. Tomorrow’s exhibition will require you to be at your best.”
The doors closed behind us, cutting off the sounds of the dispersing audience. The robots guided me not back to the cells, but to a small medical bay where a silent doctor treated my wounds without meeting my eyes.
My muscles still twitched from electrical shock, and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm me. But beneath the pain and fatigue, a grim satisfaction took hold.
I’d survived the first round of the Tyrant’s games.
Chapter 27
They threw me into a different holding cell after medical treatment. This one was larger than the previous cell but housed multiple occupants. Half a dozen prisoners sat or lay on narrow bunks built into the walls, all showing signs of recent combat. The cell smelled of antiseptic and sweat. Dim blue lighting was cast over everyone, giving us a ghostly pallor.
I collapsed onto an empty bunk, every muscle screaming in protest. The medic had patched the worst of my wounds, but hadn’t wasted painkillers on a prisoner destined for more combat tomorrow. My ribs ached with each breath. The electrical burns on my hands had been treated with a regenerative gel that itched like hell.
“Impressive performance today,” someone said from the bunk across from mine. “Nobody’s ever passed through the entire gauntlet of events on their first try before.”
I looked up to see a woman watching me with cool appraisal. She had copper-colored hair pulled back in a tight braid and eyes that missed nothing. I knew her.
“Hey, aren’t you Livy? You gave me my first job at Northaven—back when I was a maintenance grunt,” I said, remembering. “You warned me about the enforcers.”
She nodded. “That’s right, Malcolm. I was an Environmental Systems Technician—or I was, before I got promoted to ‘entertainment.’”
“Um… Malcolm was bullshit. My real name is Dane Tanner.”
“Right. Everyone knows who you are now.” She gestured to the other prisoners. “You’re the talk of the ship. The rebel who survived the gauntlet.”
A thin man with a bandaged shoulder leaned forward. “Is it true what they say? That the colonies are in full rebellion?”
I studied their faces—hopeful, desperate, trying not to show it. “There’s resistance growing. Villages banding together, fighting back against the enforcers.”
“Led by you,” said another prisoner, this one barely more than a boy.
“I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I said.
Livy stood and moved to sit beside me. “Let me look at those burns,” she said, taking my hands without waiting for permission. Her own hands were callused but gentle. “The med techs never do a proper job on arena fighters.”
“You seem to know a lot about it,” I observed.
“Time spent up here gives you an exaggerated perspective,” she replied. She produced a small container from her pocket and began applying additional ointment to my burns. “This will help with the pain.”
The relief was immediate. Whatever she was using worked better than the medical center’s gel. “Thanks,” I said. “Where’d you get that?”
She smiled thinly. “Not everyone on this ship is completely loyal to the Tyrant. Some of us have been... improvising.”
The other prisoners had drifted back to their own concerns, giving us a semblance of privacy. Livy worked methodically on my injuries, speaking quietly so only I could hear.
“There’s a network,” she said, rewrapping a bandage on my forearm. “Servants, maintenance workers, even some of the med staff. Small acts of resistance. Information gathering. Waiting for a chance.”
I kept my expression neutral. “A chance for what?”
“Change.” She finished with the bandage and moved to check the cuts on my face. “The Tyrant’s rule isn’t as secure as he pretends. Half the systems on this ship are failing because he redirected maintenance resources to his pet projects.”
“Like the rift technology?”
Her eyes sharpened. “How do you know about that?”
“He showed me my predecessor, Dom…”
“The other Earth agent,” she nodded. “That was before my time on New Horizon, but I’ve heard stories.”
I glanced around the cell. I caught sight of the reflection of the shock collar from every polished surface. It was still pulsing at my throat. “Is this conversation being monitored?”
Livy’s smile was knowing. “Cell monitoring runs on a rotation schedule to conserve power. We’re in the blind spot for another...” she checked a small device on her wrist, “...eight minutes.”
