To Steal a Moon Page 11

  As the drums rolled to indicate the start of the final competition, Bálok lifted his gaze to see that his son now had two burly guards posted directly behind his seat. In spite of the terrified, pleading look in his eyes, Shim was unable to suppress a small smile at his father’s unusual bravado around the arena. Bálok sent him a quick nod and turned to cross the floor to his Eltanin guard waiting on the far sidelines, ignoring any and all sets of eyes that might be trained in his direction.

  The stadium was charged with the expectation of savage fighting among the top four contestants in the final matches leading to the championship. Bálok stood stoically in front of his men, while Bardur and Mardukan strutted on the far sidelines in front of their Goran contingents, haughty and no doubt eager to splatter the floor with his blood and Izar’s. Above them, Tashek slouched languidly in his chair, his eyes glued onto Izar as he drank heavily from his goblet.

  “Jimat,” Bálok began in a low voice, “I have … an arrangement … with the Emperor, but if I lose or fall in the ring—”

  “I’ll get Shim out, Lord,” the captain declared. “Do you see the two guards up in the box behind him? They’re already paid off, with more promised if they deliver. I have officers stationed in the back hallway with military clothes for Shim and Zirik’s men are prepared to disappear quickly from sight to get Shim to the shuttle. The ten of us will get you to the airfield, whether you’re dead or alive. The shuttles are being loaded right now and the pilots are standing by, ready to take off.”

  Bálok turned his head and peered at his lead captain.

  Instead of lowering his eyes, Jimat returned his gaze steadily. “I won’t fail you,” he vowed gravely.

  “You never have.”

  Animated shouts filled the stadium when the announcer called Bálok and Mardukan as the contestants for the first match. The drummers pounded and clicked a steady rhythm as the two seasoned fighters walked nonchalantly out onto the floor, stirring the excitement of the thousands of Drahks in the stands.

  Bálok watched the ruler of the Orion Territories approach. His coarse brownish-white skin was nearly as light as Tashek’s and he was well-muscled for a Goran, almost as tall as Bálok, if not as massively built. Bálok knew very little about the nobleman or the scattered colonies making up the last surviving Drahkian holdings outside of Draco, but at the moment, his primary concern was overcoming the man’s superb fighting skills in order to keep his skin intact and move on to the final match.

  Mardukan sauntered into the ring with a half-smile. As soon as he came within hearing distance, he paused, taking up a casual stance across from Bálok, weighing him through narrowed lids.

  “The inscrutable Lord of Eltanin, a man to be reckoned with,” he quipped. “Getting cocky on us, Bálok, marking Izar and Eo—very ambitious. Pay me a visit after this is over. I’ve got some technology that might interest you.”

  Bálok tipped his head to the side, surprised at the conversational tone of the Goran lord he was about to engage. “You mean, if one of us isn’t dead?”

  Mardukan laughed easily. “I’m not here for kill money—even though Rastaban’s fee is awfully tempting—and I don’t think you are either. I play my own game,” he said very pointedly.

  Squinting suspiciously, Bálok lowered himself into a fighting stance. “So do I.”

  “I can see that,” the Orion leader replied, crouching to begin the initial motions of the fight. “Rall foolishly underestimated you. I won’t make that same mistake.”

  Mardukan started across the fighting space at a run. Bálok sped forward to meet him, launching himself into the air the same instant Mardukan rose into a flying kick aimed at his chest. Bálok twisted away from the impact and threw a kick into the man’s ribs, knocking him to the side before landing and whirling around to attack.

  Sprinting forward, Bálok came on with powerful strikes to the head and chest. Ducking under a high strike, Mardukan swiped up toward Bálok’s midsection, forcing him to twist away to avoid being gouged while the Goran whipped a foot out to catch him behind the knee and pulled.

  Bálok dropped to the ground and quickly rolled to the side, but before he could rise, Mardukan rushed in with a heavy raking strike from above. Leaning back on his shoulders, Bálok kicked away the descending razors and sent a forceful jab with his heel up into the Goran’s jaw, throwing him off balance for the split second he needed to shove both feet into the Goran’s stomach and send him hurling backward into a heap.

  As Bálok pushed off the floor and jumped to his feet, he heard the sound of laughter over the shouts from the stands. Mardukan unhurriedly picked himself up off the ground and watched him, rubbing one hand over his jaw.

  “Good moves, youngling,” he said with a raised eyebrow. At the flicker of confusion in Bálok’s eyes, the Goran chuckled again. “I’m older than Tashek … or anyone else in Draco.”

  With a determined grin, Mardukan whipped around into two consecutive crescent kicks at Bálok’s face, driving him backward, and dropped into a low spinning kick toward his shins. Bálok jumped to avoid the blow, but the second he landed, Mardukan reached out, grabbed one ankle, and rose off the floor, pulling Bálok’s leg out from under him and toppling him backward to the ground.

  Pulling his knees up over his head, Bálok rolled backward to his feet just as Mardukan pressed forward with another downward strike. He leaned back away from the raking claws, but not in time to keep them from grazing into the tissue across his upper chest.

  “Shit,” he hissed, twisting again just in time to avoid a second cutting blow.

  Ignoring the uproar in the stands and the sting in his skin, Bálok lashed out to grab hold of Mardukan’s wrist with his right hand and threw his left fist into the Goran’s jaw. Pulling violently downward on Mardukan’s wrist, he yanked it back toward him and flipped Mardukan completely over to crash to the floor, leaning down to swipe across the Goran’s ribs as he rolled away and scrambled to his feet.

  “You’re one strong son-of-a-bitch,” Mardukan panted as he circled briefly, his blood dripping in streams down his sides.

  With a yell, the Goran advanced once more, snapping at Bálok’s shoulder and head with a barrage of roundhouse kicks. Vaulting up above the pummeling blows, Bálok threw his elbow out to trap Mardukan’s ankle under his arm as he came back down, snaked one hand under his knee and grabbed hold of his leg with the other. Twisting forcefully with his entire body weight, he pulled Mardukan off his feet and swung him into the air, tearing into his leg as he released it and sent him flying across the ring to land with a loud crack.

  Hungry shouts rolled through the stands as Bálok strode across the ring toward the downed Goran nobleman. Mardukan rolled onto his back and winced with pain as the broken bones of his right forearm protruded awkwardly out of the skin.

  “Fucking hell,” he grated through clenched teeth, grabbing at his arm and turning his head as Bálok approached.

  The screams became ear-splitting as Bálok halted above the Orion lord and calmly raised his right hand, but before he made his final strike, he had an inexplicable urge to look up. Without moving his head, he flashed his eyes quickly to find Saryn’s gleaming form and saw that she was clutching the gold pendant at her chest, shaking her head imperceptibly.

  Dropping his gaze back to Mardukan, Bálok reached down and made a single swipe across the man’s pecs before he straightened, basking in the heightened energy rolling down from the stands over his victory.

  As Goran officers rushed out onto the floor to carefully haul their lord to his feet, the Orion ruler kept his eyes locked onto Bálok, watching him with a strange, knowing smile.

  “Come to Rigel,” he murmured before turning to hobble haltingly out of the arena in the company of a swarm of medics.

  Bálok strolled leisurely to the sidelines under howling applause from all over the arena. He didn’t bother to look at Tashek—he had the win he needed and didn’t care whether the snake was scowling or not. There was an undercur
rent of disappointment in the crowd at being deprived by his unexpected release of Mardukan, but he dismissed it from his thoughts as he mulled over his peculiar encounter with the Goran leader. If Izar’s information was accurate, he just might have made an inroad into a pivotal hidden resource which could prove to be valuable in the long-range plans swirling at the back of his mind.

  Stealing a glance at the Rastabanian as he accepted a wet towel from Jimat, he found Izar standing near the wall at the back of his retinue, peering at him with a quizzical expression, obviously wondering what the hell had just transpired with the Goran on the floor.

  Without acknowledging Izar’s look, Bálok turned away to finish his towel-down. Just let the man wonder. He had his own ambitions to put into gear and right now he intended to use every shred of his wits and skills to accomplish his most immediate objective—to be gone from this stinking planet in one piece before the day was out.

  The announcer’s voice introduced the second match while the drums began their rhythmic beating.

  A whooping yell went up on the other side of the floor. “Woooh! Time to die, Rastaban!” Bardur shouted as he pumped his arms into the air and swaggered toward the freshly-cleaned ring to face off with Izar.

  Bálok stepped to the front of his men and took up a relaxed stance as Izar sauntered to the center of the arena under a flurry of excited yelling. The noise made it impossible to make out distinct words, but Bardur made quite a scene, spitting insults and barbs at the larger man as he paced back and forth on his side of the fighting space while Izar stood, calmly waiting for the Goran prince to finish his display.

  The instant Bardur took up his fighting posture, Izar hurled himself across the ring and spun into a driving tornado kick, and when the Goran dodged the blow, he whipped around for a second kick, smashing his foot hard into Bardur’s head to knock him flailing to the side. The raucous din in the stadium spiked as it became clear that the gloves were off and that the flamboyant Rastabanian lord was on the offensive.

  Izar flew into motion, hailing rapid-fire swipes and kicks at Bardur’s torso and head, pushing him steadily backward. Hard-pressed, the Goran battled the barrage, frowning in concentration to stay ahead of Izar’s claws, but within minutes, Izar slid a blow under his defenses to tear a vicious gash in his flesh just above the groin.

  Bardur’s enraged yell reached the furthest corners of the stadium. Flipping into a tight spin, he whirled himself around his tall opponent, narrowly missing the Izar’s shoulders with a downward swipe before landing near the center of the ring.

  Storming forward with aggressive kicks, Bardur scowled ferociously as Izar laughed and danced, blocking Bardur’s thrusts effortlessly with his feet, talking all the while and taunting the Goran into new heights of fury.

  All at once, Bardur broke off his attack and stood in the middle of the floor, gesticulating and yelling at his infuriating opponent. Izar paced around the ring, smiling and answering the Goran, and then cocked his head sideways and came to a complete stop. With his arms out to the side, he motioned with his fingers and spoke a few words, inciting Bardur until the man howled with rage and charged forward. Izar stood stock still, waiting for Bardur to throw his strike and in the split second before the Goran’s claws dug into his flesh, he jerked to the side just enough to allow the tips to graze across his upper arm.

  The Drahks in the stands roared at the first sight of the Izar’s blood. He sprinted forward and lifted his bleeding shoulder up in a dramatic display, motioning with his hands at the audience and clapping to rally applause for the Goran prince’s strike.

  “That damned hotshot,” Bálok muttered, turning to find Jimat grinning along with the rest of his guardsmen at the Rastabanian lord’s antics.

  Bardur raced after him, clearly beside himself with outrage, and lunged at Izar to tackle him from behind, but was caught short by a bludgeoning back kick into his stomach. Whirling around, Izar threw his fist up into Bardur’s jaw and as the Goran’s head came back down from the blow, Izar grabbed him by the neck with one hand and lifted him off the ground, feeding off of his fear and squeezing his throat until the blood ran in rivers down his arm and chest.

  Bálok’s stomach twisted the instant he realized Izar was going to kill him. His eyes flew to Tashek who was sitting forward, his hands white-knuckled on the arms of his chair, boiling with rage.

  The screams in the stadium soared to a frenzied peak while Izar turned in deliberate exhibition, holding the struggling Goran prince high above his head until he was facing the Emperor. The moment Bardur fell slack, Izar looked up at Tashek and flung the body down to the floor in front of him.

  Tashek fumed, glaring at the Rastabanian leader with bitter hatred.

  Izar stared back for some time before turning away just as imperial guards ran out to lift the prince’s body off the floor and carry it off toward the palace. Under tumultuous shouting, Izar raised his arms in the air and stalked around the floor, reveling in the adulation of Ka’s all over the stadium for defeating the Goran nobleman.

  Bálok blew out a long breath as he watched Izar preen. While he had no qualms over the demise of Tashek’s loathsome great-grandson, what he did find cumbersome was the lathered climate in the arena and the hair-trigger temper the Emperor had been driven to. As Izar strutted back to his retinue, Bálok stood as still as a statue, gazing at his son and steeling his resolve in order to do what he needed to do.

  The announcer’s voice rang through the arena over the excited hum in the stands.

  “The final match of the Emperor’s illustrious tournament is about to commence,” he began with his arms raised. “The winner will be granted a destroyer for one Darbanian year.” With a wave of his hand toward the ring, he loudly proclaimed, “For the championship—the Lord of Eltanin and the Lord of Rastaban.”

  The deep drums beat out a heavy cadence as Bálok walked out onto the floor to enter one side of the ring. To his right, Izar moved into position across from him, standing loosely, ready to begin the match.

  Abruptly, the drumming ground to a halt. An anxious murmur rippled through the stands as heads swung toward the Emperor who was rising slowly to his feet.

  Tashek peered down at the two contestants and waited until silence hung in the arena like a storm cloud. When he spoke, his voice was whisper soft and as edged as a dagger.

  “You will fight to the death.”

  As thousands of voices broke into agitated rumbling, the Emperor raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Bálok looked up in horror to see Shim and young Kamál herded roughly down the aisle by their guards and brought to stand at the front of the Emperor’s box.

  Tashek stared heatedly down at Izar and signaled a second time. Bálok darted his head and watched as imperial troops appeared in key points up in the stands, sending a surge of commotion through the crowds. He flipped around toward Jimat just as troops on the floor moved in with raised weapons to surround the Eltanin and Rastabanian guards while several stepped forward with rifles aimed at his head and Izar’s.

  Turning back toward the ring, Bálok closed his eyes to marshal the potent wave of anger rising up from his core—anger at Tashek for his lethal show of force, anger at Izar for incensing the bastard past reason. He could feel the cords around his wrists as surely as he had when he’d watched Tiga and Bakir ripped to pieces, but this time—this time he had the power to cut himself loose and do something about it.

  When he opened his eyes again, he swung his gaze up to the Emperor who was coolly sitting back down with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. The masses of Drahks in the stands writhed in hungry anticipation, yelling and shouting for blood while the heavy drum cadence began again and would continue until someone was dead.

  Bálok lowered his gaze to the man across from him. Izar stood without moving a muscle, the piercing eyes watching him carefully.

  “You just had to kill him, didn’t you?” Bálok spat with venom. “And now we have guns at our heads!”

  “H
e was ready for this,” the Rastabanian replied evenly. “He would have done it whether I killed Bardur or not.”

  Ignoring the remark, Bálok dropped into a crouch with his crest splayed in challenge. Izar raised his hands and began to circle, his gaze never wavering from Bálok’s movements.

  Pulling his focus into a tight tunnel, Bálok blocked out everything but the dangerous man in front of him. The strange visit last night told him Izar had been out to court him, not kill him, but with Tashek’s deadly goad, he knew the Rastabanian lord was quite capable of mowing him down. He’d have to be completely on his game to stay ahead of him and get out of this mess alive.

  Bálok flew forward and shot a front thrust kick into Izar’s chest, knocking him back a pace, and lashed out quickly with strikes of his claws—overhand, backhand, slicing from multiple directions, keeping his hits random while he watched for the smallest indication of an offensive move.

  Izar met each of his thrusts with hard blocks, knocking or kicking his hands away, giving ground before he darted toward Bálok with a whipping kick into his ribs and a sharp left hook into his jaw. As Bálok shifted backward from the blows, Izar quickly raked the tip of one claw under Bálok’s collar bone, sending streams of blood running down into the cuts from Mardukan’s strike.

  Bálok looked up sharply—Izar could just as easily have sliced him across the throat while he had the opening. Swinging his arm into a swift backhand blow toward Izar’s head and forcing him to duck, Bálok whipped out a quick kick and clipped Izar in the jaw, scoring him lightly across his right shoulder blade as Izar pulled himself out of range and flipped back around.