The Hunter on Arena (18 page)

His thoughts immediately conjured up the image of Auslic, the chief of their city state, and Auslic appeared before him. It
was as though he were standing in Auslic’s bed chamber and could actually have reached out and touched the man who was like
a father to him. But Auslic gave no sign of seeing him, despite Braldt’s clarity of vision. Auslic appeared to be in better
health than the last time Braldt had seen him. Then he had been close to death. Now he paced his chambers with his hands tucked
behind his back, sighing deeply and often as if a great weight rested on his shoulders. His face was creased and careworn
and his mouth sagged in sorrow.

Braldt spoke to him, but it was obvious that Auslic did not know he was there. Braldt was desperate to know what terrible
events had brought such grief on Auslic and he turned his thoughts to Carm, his adopted brother. Surely Cam would know.

The mists swirled and parted a second time and the sight that was revealed to him was so terrible that at first
he could scarcely comprehend what he was seeing. It was Cam, as he was when last he saw him, horribly scarred and disfigured.
Their torturous path, the one that had ultimately brought him here to this place, had taken them inside a mountain which housed
an active volcano trapped in its depths. The unstable ground had fractured, grievously wounding Batta Flor and scalding and
burning Cam.

The exposure to the volcano and his close brush with death had evidently shaken Cam deeply, altering his life in some radical
way, for he had become crazed and had attempted to kill Braldt, but had only succeeded in plunging him into the void that
had delivered him to this place.

But now, here was Cam again, inside the mountain at the heart of the volcano once more, spewing religious madness. Only this
time he was not alone, he was wearing the robes of a priest, and behind him, their faces shining with fear or religious fervor,
were a multitude of Braldt’s clan.

He was so stunned at the sight of this revelation that his mind refused to function and he stared at the awful scene until
it was shrouded by mists and disappeared. Only then did he come back to himself with a jerk and think to ask about Keri and
Batta Flor, the two who occupied his thoughts the most. But it was too late. The world swam into focus around him, his companions
staring at him with concern, Randi leaning forward and saying something he could not hear, and Allo shaking his shoulder gently.
The men on the dais were watching him intently.

He closed his eyes, desperate to bring back the
swirling clouds, to learn about Keri and Batta Flor. But it was no good, the present came flooding in on all fronts, the heat
of the suns beating down on his head, the stink of fresh blood smeared on his chest, Randi’s voice in his ears. He sagged,
overcome with sorrow. At once he understood how his companions had felt. The gift of knowledge was a bitter gift, one that
brought no comfort, only pain. Perhaps that was why it was granted.

Keri ran her fingers through her hair, tugging on the
tight, dark curls, trying to work the knots out but scarcely aware of her own actions as she contemplated her companion.
Beast whined as though sensing the darkness of her mood and lay his head across her lap, an unusual bit of familiarity from
the wild creature who normally kept his distance. Keri reached down and stroked his coarse fur, feeling him tremble beneath
her touch, realizing that this strange captivity was hard on him as well.

But Batta Flor occupied most of her thoughts, for without the red berries that supplied the complex chemicals that were necessary
to maintain his genetically altered brain, her companion, that noble and gentle being, was visibly sinking further and further
into a primitive animalistic state. Without the berry in his diet, all signs of a civilized nature had vanished. He walked
on all fours far more often than upright. He no longer spoke at all, only grunted, growled, and made other animal sounds.
The damage to his ear, the center of pain for those of his species, had eliminated pain as a deterrent; now there was little
or nothing that could sway him from a decided course of action. Further, the glint of intelligence that used to come into
his eyes whenever he saw her was
gone as well. Now he would look at her in puzzlement as though unable to figure out who or what she was.

But even more upsetting than the fact that he no longer recognized her was the attraction he now seemed to feel for her—that
of an active, adult male for an available female. So far, he had done nothing more than sniff her from head to toe, but once
he had seized her and held her tight, refusing to release her even when she struggled. He had carried her around beneath his
arm like a package, finally losing interest and abandoning her. This had frightened her badly and she did her best to keep
as much distance between them as possible, although it was difficult to do in such small quarters.

Beast sensed that something was wrong and once when Batta Flor approached Keri, the lupebeast pup bared his considerable double
rows of fangs and growled at his former friend. Batta Flor stopped short and stared at the pup, then ambled off and began
to feed. Keri hugged the pup to her chest, afraid for him as well as for herself, for it would take no more than a casual
backhand from Batta Flor’s immense fist to break the pup’s spine or neck.

Batta Flor’s lapse into animality had one good side effect—he had become an even more powerful fighter. Now he seemed to sense
a coming battle as soon as he wakened, and paced the cell, eager for the coming fight. He entered the arena, shoulders hunched,
his long eyeteeth bared in a fierce grimace, pounding on his broad, powerful chest with his fists, producing a hollow booming
sound that could be heard across the ring. His roars of rage and defiance spoke of death and dying and struck
terror into the hearts of their opponents. Even Keri was terrified and at such times she was glad that Batta Flor was not
her enemy.

He had ceased to use any of his weapons other than the cudgel which he used as an extension of his arm, cracking heads, crushing
flesh, and pulverizing bones. His reputation preceded him and often their opponents fled in fear only to be hunted down and
ruthlessly slaughtered one by one around the perimeters of the ring. Often times it was not even necessary for Keri and Beast
to fight.

The trio of men with Braldt’s face still waited for them on the dais after each contest, but as always, Batta Flor had no
interest in them and exited from the arena as soon as the last opponent was slain.

Their entrance into the ring was always met with a mighty roar, chanting their names over and over and over. They had clearly
captured the hearts of the audience and become ring favorites. Keri wondered if they would cheer their deaths as well.

With every victory, their physical circumstances improved for it seemed that victors were rewarded for their performance.
The quality of their food improved as did their physical comforts. Softer blankets were provided as well as thick cushions
to sleep upon. Batta Flor took no notice of the amenities, and seemed more concerned with the quantity of the food rather
than the quality.

Keri could not stop worrying and wondering about Braldt, but in this, too, as with everything else, there was no answer.

* * *

Her heart thudding within her chest, Lomi approached the bars of the cell, wondering if it would contain Bracca. She had greeted
the reptilian crone who crouched before the fire burning in the low hearth, seeing the recognition come to the single, rheumy
eye. The old one had patted her hand with a scaly paw and murmured a low question. Lomi had long known that this one was the
custodian of the cells and had gone out of her way to show the crone kindness simply because she was the last to have come
into contact with Bracca before he was sent offworld. The old one now regarded her with an affection that went far beyond
gratitude for the simple kindnesses Lomi had extended to her over the years.

The woman’s tongue was difficult to master, for her mouth had been disfigured by an injury at some point in her long distant
youth. But with the passage of time, Lomi had learned her story and their mutual sorrow had drawn them closer than would normally
have been possible.

The crone was a native of the planet. Her brethren had resisted the invasion of men who descended out of the skies, but they
had fallen before the superior weapons and technology. Theirs had been a fledgling civilization and they had been easily subjugated.
Those who dared to oppose them were killed outright or sent to labor in the mines which the invaders quickly established.

The Rototarans, as they called themselves, were the cause of the origin of the games. A rudimentary ring existed at the time
of the conquest, used for a stylized, ritualistic form of courtship. But the invaders were quick to turn it into something
completely different for their
own amusement. At first they used it as a means of getting rid of Rototarans who proved difficult.

The crone, known as Saviq, who was young and courting at the time, saw her betrothed dispatched in this manner. She had gone
berserk with grief and rage and had attacked the Thanes. Her life was spared, for her actions had amused the Scandis, but
she had been grievously wounded and ever after had spoken in a garbled manner. The two women had been drawn together by the
magnitude of their losses which was a far greater bond than the sum of their differences.

Now it took but a murmured request which Saviq honored without hesitation, pointing out a large cell at the far end of the
corridor.

Lomi could not understand how such a thing could have happened. What could Bracca have done to have brought himself back to
face the ring? And what of his mate and his child? All of these questions and more hammered in her head as she gripped the
bars and peered into the dark enclosure. “Bracca,” she whispered tremulously. “Bracca, it is I, Lomi.”

At first there was no response, but she called out a second time, and before the words were out of her mouth, a horrid little
man who stood barely waist high, pressed up against the bars leering at her, his hand sliding up the inside of her thigh.
She jerked away out of his reach and crossed her arms across her chest, waves of revulsion coursing through her body. She
could feel her cheeks burning red under the dwarf’s salacious gaze.

And then he was there, Bracca Jocobe Brandtson, tall and handsome and miraculously untouched by the
passage of time. He gripped the dwarf by the shoulders and lifted him away, ignoring the sputtering of colorful curses that
spewed from the little man’s mouth. Then there was nothing between them but the bars and the deep welling emotion of her memories.
Lomi’s eyes filled with tears as her hand reached for his. He spoke.

“Is there something wrong, Lady? Are you in some distress?” His voice was kind, but something was wrong. Even the long years
of separation could not rob her of the memory of Bracca’s voice, strong and deep and resonant. This voice was all of those
things, but different. It was not the voice she had held in her heart.

She grasped the hand that reached for hers and knew without a doubt that the fates had not seen fit to smile upon her but
were merely playing out some cosmic joke for their own amusement. Lomi was an intelligent, intuitive, and discerning woman,
and the hand that held hers did so out of good manners and gentle concern. There was no hint of love or the memory of such.
This was not Bracca. At that moment, she sagged and would have collapsed had Braldt not wrapped his arms around her slender
body and called out in alarm. To his amazement, the old woman who tended the water cart was there in an instant, reaching
for the woman and cradling her in her scaly arms, crooning to her and uttering words of comfort. Braldt and his companions
gathered at the bars and watched the strange scene in total confusion, unsure of what was happening.

The old crone attempted to revive the woman, but her skin was a curious ashen-blue shade and her breathing was ragged and
steterous. It was obvious that she was
in great distress. The old one’s cries grew frantic and she looked about in terror, clearly divided about going for help or
remaining with the woman.

Braldt felt responsible in some way, even though he could not have said how. The woman had reached for him and he had failed
her in some way as was apparent from her reaction. “Let me out!” he cried to the crone. “Let me help.”

The old reptile looked up and tried to focus on Braldt with her single eye which dripped with tears. She wrung her scaled
hands and rocked back and forth, moaning. She was clearly terrified, although whether for herself or for the fallen woman
was impossible to say. Randi added her voice to Braldt’s and Allo spoke up as well. The crone stumbled to her feet and unlocked
the door to the cell, urging them toward the woman whose eyes had rolled back into her skull.

Braldt laid his hands upon the woman’s chest and felt the thready tremble of the uncertain heart within. He spoke to Randi
who immediately pushed him aside and began a complex routine of breathing and manual expression of the woman’s chest. After
a long, uncomfortable period, Lomi gave a long sigh, choked, and began to breath more evenly.