Shadow Watch: Kethurg War, page 13
It was a fair point. “I’d hope not. I came in hoping we’d play an Amber game. I’d hate to leave here disappointed.”
The prince’s voice becomes overcharged thunder. “Oh, you won’t be disappointed, Mr. Thorn!”
This offer is remarkably similar to the one Sobsyg gave, and I have to wonder if this is the standard way of doing business these days.
I’m ready to flip the table and go for Frokk’s dueling blade. I can’t see his waist, but I bet he’s carrying some kind of pistol. I could blast my way out of here, but then what? Be met outside by a pack of Root ready to rip my throat out and die without the antidote?
“What happens if I win?”
“I let you live, of course, and leave here and never return to this system ever again.”
“Okay. What about that fifty million cred repair bill?” I ask the prince.
Bam Bam wipes his palms together. “All will be forgiven. You may even leave with the millions of creds you… won from my niece.” He inhales and lets it out slowly. “First, where is the think blade I gave you?”
I relax my shoulders and hold my palms out. “About that. I would have rather had four million creds. Maybe I was being greedy. So, let’s do this. Let’s call it even. You can have the think blade back, and we’ll be on our way, and you’ll never have to see my ugly face again.”
The prince turns his gaze to Topson, and as they exchange glances, she fidgets slightly and eventually turns to me.
“Where is the think blade aboard your ship?” Topson asks.
“How would I know? Probably in cargo or in my room.”
Captain Topson glances at the bot behind the bar, then back at me. “My team searched your entire ship.”
“I’ll gladly give it back to you, Prince Oreah, once I win this game of yours.”
Bam Bam touches the back of his hand, and when he does, I notice a thin subdermal implant near his knuckles. “He is telling the truth.”
“I have been telling you the truth the entire time,” I explain.
Sobsyg’s been quiet this whole time. Now I know why. The bot’s been aiming a needler pistol at his head, and I just now see it.
I look down at the cards. “What’s the game?”
As the bot plants one hand on the counter, he swings his body effortlessly over the counter while keeping his aim steady on Sobsyg. “I will deal.”
Lieutenant Sobsyg stands, his arms in the air. He and I exchange a disgruntled look, but we both know the bot’s faster than both of us. One move on our part and he’s dead. The Prince let Sobsyg infiltrate all the way here, so he could bring both of us here at the same time. Because Ushars like Sobsyg are impossible to read, I can’t tell if he’s planned for this or not. If he did, he should have let me know.
The bot walks to a cabinet and pulls out a new deck of cards, still in shrink. He peels the label off, shuffles for a while, places the cards in the center of the table, and looks at me. “Draw a card.”
“Just one?”
“One.”
“Look at it?”
“No.”
I peel the top one off and slide it over.
“Show it,” the prince says.
When I flip it over, my guts twist in a knot. This game is called High Card, and I’ve just drawn a Seven of Clubs. Frokk and Topson snicker at my weak draw.
“Tough break,” Bam Bam remarks as he slides the top card to his side and flips it over. It’s a King of Diamonds. “Very, very tough break.”
I turn to Sobsyg in time to see the bot shoot him with the needler. The lieutenant smacks against the floor, unconscious.
Bam Bam turns to Frokk. “Search his ship again. I want the Lancer torn inside and out. Find that weapon and bring it to me.” He waits until both Frokk and the bot leave.
My instincts make me try to draw my expensive cutlass at my side again, but I can’t. “You are making a big mistake, Prince Oreah.”
Bam Bam pays no attention to me. “Topson, take him to the arena cell and await my orders.”
“Arena?” I ask.
“Oh, you thought you were going to live, Mr. Thorn? I promise if you put up a good fight in the arena, you will be remembered for something better than your military record. You will be famous.”
My legs feel soft and give way. There’s a needle in my arm and a pistol in Topson’s hand. “Anyone carrying a cutlass like that must know how to use it.”
The lights dim, and I feel woozy.
Captain Topson bends down beside me and caresses the side of my hair and face. “Fight well, Hex.”
As my eyes grow heavy, Prince Oreah says to someone, “Make sure the poison is out of his system. We want him ready for the arena.”
CHAPTER 17
My body lands in the center of an arena with a crunch. Dirt and sand cover the floor. I taste copper, and spit blood. I’m to be tonight’s entertainment. A hatch seals the hole above me. There’s no escape. Before Captain Topson kissed my cheek and sent me off to die, she gave me the Class 1 cutlass and scabbard Sobsyg had gifted me. No doubt, I’ll die in this arena. Not without a fight.
I hastily buckle the sword belt around my waist. A shimmering purple force field rises well above my head. Beyond it, the seats are filled with nobles and corporate suits paying Bam Bam to watch me die. Adjacent to them, high-class merchants and drunken tourists pack the booths. It’s a madhouse over there.
The air reeks; an animal stench that reminds me of Torlock ice bears mating, which, if you’ve never had the displeasure of smelling before, is like mixing the stench of burnt hair, foot fungus, and a festering wound. It’s all I can do not to puke.
In front of me, a shadowy figure awaits me beyond an iron gate at the other end of a tunnel. A sword hangs on his shoulder. He’s not human, but in the shadow, it’s hard for me to see what he is.
The door behind me doesn’t have a handle or a way of opening it. That’s probably the way out. There’s a solid door to my left. That’s where the smell is coming from.
Raucous cheers erupt from the crowd, their roars penetrating the force field.
I leap to my feet as a massive holo of a Gidalvi face towers over me in the center of the arena. He’s all smiles with plucked eyebrows and shiny long hair, one of Bam Bam’s showmen. His voice thunders around me. “Greetings one and all, from all over the galaxy, welcome! We have a special show for you tonight, something you’ve all been waiting for. This show promises to be a night to remember!”
While he’s narrating, I’m checking the place out for an escape route. Don’t any of these people see that this is a sham? No, there’s no way to exfiltrate out of here. There’s nothing to climb. When the person with the sword comes out, maybe I’ll charge past him.
The arena is large enough for grav chariots to race and completely open.
I throw up my arms, drawing the attention of the crowd. “Bam Bam Oreah!” My cry only encourages them. I’m going to kill him somehow. Not only him, I’m going to destroy House Oreah. Once I get Doctor Attica Tharand, I’ll come back. I’ll come back and wipe House Oreah off the face of the map.
On a wall screen that loops all the way around the upper arena, a green orb flashes next to a timer, and the m-clasp around the hilt of the blade clinks. I draw my blade and retreat to a door behind me. I might be able to cut through the door if I can put enough force behind it.
The gate in front of me lifts, and a Slith stomps into the arena. He’s nearly twice my height and lean. A necklace made of fangs hangs on his scaly neck, and a metal band wraps around his wrist. Other than that, he wears little. By the way he moves, he’s nimble and favors his left side.
“Presenting a prized gladiator champion from the Kellos Sector, winner of last season’s Slaughter Hunt, Grand Master of Sthsis, everyone please give a warm welcoming applause to Yilth the Eye Eater!”
Yilth tilts his head back, and his tongue flickers toward the ceiling. The crowd is on fire, their cheers deafening. When Yilth touches the metal wristband, it shoots a beam, creating an oval force shield covering his left side. He raises his sword to the crowd, a salute. Slith runes snake up the blade, and with a flick of his wrist, the weapon gives off a faint hum. My sword won’t be able to cut through his.
For my first fight in the arena, Captain Topson provided me an armored vest made from a creature’s leathery hide, cloth wraps for my feet and palms, reinforced by thin hard plastic straps, and wristbands made of polished deep sea hunchback snails, attached with a leather belt. Its traditional arena armor, the vestiges of a far more savage era.
The announcer drowns out my voice. “Presenting our mystery guest! Introducing a seasoned veteran hailing from the Heathguard System from planet Hetera and winner of countless medals for valor and excellence. Everyone give a hand for Hex Thorn, the Butcher!”
Their cheers send a chill up my spine. “What is this?” I’ve got to get out of here.
Yilth circles slowly to my right.
I wave my cutlass at him, backing toward the tunnel he came through. “Hey, listen, this is a misunderstanding.”
Hiss.
Yilth throws himself at me, his sword aimed at my forehead.
I parry in time, but he makes me eat a shield bash. My nose bleeds, and sparkles float around me. “There’s no reason for us to fight.”
His webbed toes crush the sand as he advances toward me, shield first. When he’s close, he thrusts, but I’m already on the other side of him, planting a heel into his reptilian abdomen. His guts are like jelly. He staggers and then I press my attack. Swing after swing, a tornado bouncing off his shield. Sweat drips from my brow.
The crowd is on their feet.
“Human!” With a scowl, he turns his shield off and grasps his sword with both of his hands. “Rip you to shreds! Meat!”
Another barrage, but he’s swinging for a killing blow, one he’s not going to get. I’m huffing. I’ve got to control my breathing. Easy does it. He’s tired, too.
I don’t hear the crowd. It’s just me and him. As surreal as this situation is, I’m in the moment. Death has a way of doing that.
He lunges, but I’m ready. Each swing is met by a block. He’s not slowing down, and now I’m on the other side of the arena, next to the exit. Our clash stops a few centimeters from my face, the two blades sparking over my skin. I dig my heel into the sand, but he’s strong. I can’t stop him. When I sidestep him, he throws me back.
“Hey, what do you say you and me get out of here? Let’s cut open this door and make a run for it.” As I tap the door, he shows me his teeth. Why do all Slith do this?
“Meat! Meat!”
“So much for that idea.”
Metal blurs past me, my steel meeting his. I’m calm. I’m calm. Keep calm. Here he comes, and I move out of the way and reach for his arm. Clock says it’s been eight minutes, but it feels like eighty. My counter attacks are met in kind. My arms burn.
“I don’t want to kill you.” As I throw up my guard, Yilth brings his sword down over his head, leaving open his chest. “Stop!”
Clang!
Steel kisses steel.
“Listen,” I whisper to him, “let’s get out of here.”
“There is no escape! Fight to live.”
He throws everything at me. Fists. Kicks. I switch stances, my weapon shifting between my hands.
Off in the distance, the color commentator narrates the fight, taking notice of how bad the champ is fighting.
I’m calm. I’m calm. Something is wrong with my thinking. Yilth is an outline.
Now I’m circling him, and he’s breathing heavy. I bait him with a feint and stab him deep between the ribs. He gasps. There’s an opening. I reach up and plant my palm into the bottom of his jaw. His eyes roll back, and my next slash tears open his scales, gutting him. Bloody organs splatter at my feet. In his death throes, he rakes his claws against my shin. Although I see the blood, I don’t feel anything.
Silence.
A group cheers and then another joins. Soon, more than half of the merchants and tourists are whistling and hugging each other. They’ve bet on me, the underdog, and I’ve made them rich.
Time to leave.
No matter how hard I hack my sword against the exit door, it doesn’t make a single cut. I check the blade. It’s clipped and warped, something that shouldn’t be possible with a Class 1 sword. I’m holding a lightweight sharped chunk of steel, not a sword. I walk over while the crowd roars and check Yilth’s weapon. It’s in similar shape, and now I see why my weapon’s damaged. He brought a Class 1 weapon into the arena to fight me.
I sprint to the center of the arena, all eyes on me. Blood trickles down my leg. My legs burn as I sprint to Yilth’s tunnel, the only opening that’s available. A metal barrier slams down over it, blocking it. Bam Bam isn’t going to let me leave, is he?
I’ll never play cards again, I swear.
“Everyone! Listen to me!” I point at my chest. “I’m the captain who saved this ship! I’m the Lancer pilot! All of you would be dead without me! I blew up those corvettes.” I’m waving my hands over my head, but no one is responding to me.
The main holo screen turns black. On it, my face pixelates next to a chart showing my height, weight, body type, and my sonic inhibitor implants in my ears. People mumble as they take out their dataslates and make new bets.
“Who wants to see another fight with the newcomer?!” the announcer bellows.
Cheers. Deafening, sadistic cheers.
There’s something in the air, here, something being pumped in, and it tastes bitter, like ash. I can’t place it. The announcer continues, but I’m not sure what he’s saying. My name is tossed into his speech.
Another set of gates open. The ceiling spins as I cut down, one, two, three, four Slith warriors, my muscles moving by instinct and training.
It’s this air. It’s doing something to me.
“Ten point nine seconds,” the announcer says. “A new record.”
I need to go into war mode. Turn off my senses and get to killing. When I escape this place, Bam Bam is going to pay dearly. It won’t be now. Attica Tharand is the mission. Get the Doctor Attica Tharand to Lieutenant Sobsyg. Get Tharand to Sobsyg. Get him. Don’t stop.
It’s this air. It’s doing something… to me.
It’s too bad Tharand can’t be assassinated rather than captured. When I meet the doctor face to face, I’m going to… I’m not sure what I’m going to do other than turn him over to Sobsyg and collect.
The announcer sends in two Roots, and after beheading one with my broken sword, I use his dueling blade and chop off the legs of the other one. As he dies, we stare at each other, one warrior to another and then he’s dead like his comrade.
This is madness.
CHAPTER 18
I wear blood like a bad habit.
Guards drag me out of the arena. I go willingly, biding my time. Their path takes me through dark corridors to my holding cell, and it’s as primitive as something you’d encounter on a Frontier world. An invisible force field hums at the exit. Everything is painted a soft gray, minus the iron bars keeping us in. The vent clatters, blowing stale sweaty air inside. Beings from around the galaxy have carved their initials into the walls with tally marks under their names, their wins. No one has more than ten.
A few hours pass. I’m too tired to move and in too much pain to sleep. The ash taste leaves my mouth, and I gain a little clarity. Where’s Sobsyg? Why doesn’t he break me out?
Then I remember the bot shooting him with the needler pistol.
Corr, Stu, and Jipta should run. They should sell whatever they can aboard the Lancer and get out of here as soon as possible. They were right.
A day goes by. More killing. They’re drugging me through my food, keeping me in the dark in my cell, making me sick. Last night, I couldn’t sleep. The smell of blood kept me awake, and I make a small mark on the wall next to my bedroll after every third meal, so that I can keep track of how long I’ve been here.
It’s the next day. I think I saw Sobsyg, and I think he talked to me. The constant violence blurs everything together, so maybe I’m wrong. There’s a large furry animal that crawls over me when I sleep, but in my drugged haze, he escapes before I can kill him. I suppose he’s in the room somewhere, waiting for me to die.
It’s the following day, and in a few hours, I’ve murdered twenty people, mostly slaves with no chance against me. My death count ticks higher on a holo board, Zeus’ crowd enraptured by my martial prowess. I have no sense of time, scale, or location.
My arm aches from the combat drugs the prince injects in me.
That night, I’m taken to another cell in a different part below the arena, my hands cuffed behind me and a stun rod rammed in the small of my back. The dim light in the cramped halls lets me get a sense of how many slaves and warriors stay beneath the arena, over a hundred by my estimation.
The guards march me past two security checkpoints and toward two-person cells. They’re significantly larger, allowing two people to sleep in them. As I stop in front of my new cell, the other prisoners heckle and boo me, calling for their pound of flesh.
Someone slips something metallic and cold into my hand about the size of a coin, and when I turn to see who it is, I notice a man march past me. The object chills my fingers, and I tighten my grip around it. A square hole is punched in the center of it. The guards don’t take it from me. When it rubs against my palm, it stings briefly, like getting zapped by static electricity. The jolt makes me almost drop it.
The person who gave it to me is roughly my height with reddish skin and long blond hair and a brown dress coat with a high collar. The guards fling me in the cell and reactivate the force field.
