To Steal a Moon Page 7
Taking up a casual stance in front of his men while the officials scurried to ready the single ring for the first round, he could feel himself being watched, but at the moment, he didn’t care. His primary focus was on breathing, in and out, very deliberately until the internal tremors eased and faded away. To give his mind something to latch onto instead of Eo, he glanced across the arena at the lone figure of his son, silent and resigned, and then down over the Goran nobility packed into the Emperor’s box where he noticed the conspicuous absence of the bleary-eyed ruler of Alrakis.
“Jimat, Lord Burdek is not in the arena. Send someone to quietly find out why.”
“Yes, Lord, right away.”
Bálok swept his gaze to the right over the section of his Eltanin officers who were chatting amongst themselves and on through the humming sea of faces, searching for anyone or anything to land on which might draw his thoughts away from his inner turmoil. Finding nothing of interest, he found himself fidgeting with his armbands as the first round matches were posted overhead on the board, and then pacing restlessly back and forth in front of his men through the first two contests until his name was announced to step forward to fight.
From the second he entered the ring, Bálok channeled all of his attention into the Ka fighter across from him. Súlanan, Lord of the Kuma system, was light on his feet, balanced, and had no marks on his skin, indicating a high degree of expertise. He was also a supreme ass. Bálok had done business with the contentious ruler several times in the past and it had always, unfailingly, left him antagonized and pissed.
The Kuman nobleman eyed him up and down, undoubtedly looking for something cutting to say.
“Ah, the impenetrable Bálok,” he said smugly. “Still fleecing people with your overpriced warships?” The man had the flagrant audacity to laugh as he crouched into a fighting stance.
“Today is not the day to irritate me, Súlanan,” he warned in a tight voice.
Unsheathing his claws, Bálok crouched and circled, allowing his opponent to make the first moves. Predictably, Súlanan began with a few cautious strikes, but quickly shifted into more aggressive tactics, pushing forward with several overhand swipes and side kicks. Bálok blocked and ducked, giving ground and throwing a few weak swings of his own which brought precisely the reaction he was looking for out of his pompous opponent.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Súlanan needled with a mocking smile.
“You’re about to find out,” Bálok replied in a menacingly low tone.
When the Kuman lord came on again with a high kick to the chest, Bálok knocked his leg away with a violent thrust of his left arm and spun completely around, bringing his right fist up hard underneath Súlanan’s jaw. As the man’s head cracked back, Bálok raked his left claws deeply into his chest muscles and kicked him sharply in the breastbone, sending him flying backward across the ring.
Before Súlanan could rise, Bálok dashed over and hit him again across the face, reaching down to slice gouges into his stomach, soaking up his shock as the man pulled in his knees and rolled backward to be able to jump to his feet.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Bálok snarled. As Súlanan started to push up from the floor, Bálok swung around with a powerful kick to the head, flinging him downward one last time and slashing viciously across his exposed shoulder blade before he hit the floor.
With his claws dripping, Bálok panted and walked back to the sidelines under a shower of excited shouting from the stands above. Jimat’s countenance was somber as he handed him a wet towel and watched him out of the corner of his eye while Bálok carefully wiped down every inch of his skin.
He knew what his captain was thinking, but he needed the vent for his pent-up frustration as much as he needed air. Dropping the towel back into a bucket against the wall, he took several deep breaths to collect himself before turning around and walking back to the front of his men. With all the determination he could muster, he pulled his mind away from his anger and focused on the activity in front of him in the arena.
The buzz in the air seemed louder than it had the day before. The climate of expectation running through the spectators was more acute which only served to aggravate Bálok’s internal struggle. With the advanced skill level of the semi-finalists, strikes were much more difficult to achieve, bringing the fighting in each match to a higher level of intensity.
As the first round proceeded, it was clear that the seven Goran semi-finalists were still out for serious blood. Strangely though, in spite of the Emperor’s flagrant monetary encouragement, the other Ka fighters appeared to be holding back from inflicting extreme injury. Bálok was certain they were each talented enough to deliver as much bodily damage as any Goran, but it was almost as if they were adhering to some silent code or edict to refrain from unnecessary brutality. Ushak and Tivas were both sharp and calculating, demonstrating well-executed strategy, while Daga showed remarkable cunning and could probably outlast any of them on the floor. And Izar—
Izar was driving the Gorans into a frenzy, especially now with the outlandish reward Tashek was offering on his head. He had beaten five of them yesterday and walked away without so much as a scratch, doling out nothing more than clean cuts to his zealously aggressive opponents. Little wonder that Tashek was in a lather, not to mention the Goran fighters on the floor. As Izar stepped into the ring for his first match of the day, it was obvious from his Goran opponent’s vociferous jeering that the man was slavering like a mad dog after the tantalizing blood money, but the the unflappable Rastabanian maneuvered around his brutish offensives and cut him down within minutes, raising Tashek’s ire to new heights.
As soon as the drums indicated the start of the second round, Bálok scanned the postings on the board and when he saw the name of his opponent, he fell into irritated pacing once again. He thought he’d siphoned off most of his disquiet with Súlanan, but his body told him otherwise. His muscles twitched with an overabundance of nervous energy he couldn’t seem to quell. In spite of his efforts to stay focused on the tournament, his mind wandered incessantly to his outrage over Eo and how close he had come, twice, to having his hands on Eo’s hide, only to have the scum slither out of his grasp. It burned a hole right through his middle to the point he could barely see straight.
Bálok stalked back and forth in front of his men, impatient at having to wait through six matches of the round before he could fight. The moment his name was called, he bolted into the ring, wound tighter than a spring, claws extended and ready to fly. Across from him stood the young Lord of Grumium, eying him warily. Howls went up from the Eltanin section as Bálok made a leisurely circle around the smaller man and came to a halt with his head tilted to the side.
“Nakkár, we meet at last,” he said, his eyes narrowing on the one-time nuisance.
“Lord Bálok.”
The Grumium nobleman shifted nervously from foot to foot, shaking out his arms and readying himself to take on the giant across from him.
Dropping into a crouch, Bálok trained his eyes on Nakkár and exploded into action. Before Nakkár could advance, he tore across the ring, hitting him with a running jump kick to knock him off balance and a brutal swipe to his belly, bringing shouts of excitement from the crowds. He plowed on with controlled, lightning-quick strikes at Nakkár’s head and chest, alternating with barrages of roundhouse and front kicks, forcing the young fighter to concentrate on blocking to avoid Bálok’s feet and claws. As soon as Nakkár sprinted away, he attacked again, driving him against the boundary of the ring time after time, giving him no chance to initiate any kind of offensive of his own.
Bálok was peripherally aware that the noise in the stands had escalated, but all he could see was a small man he needed to hammer, someone he needed to nail to the floor. Nakkár danced skillfully and blocked his thrusts, but the young fighter’s anxiety level spiked sharply under the blitz of well-aimed strikes.
Bálok felt the instant Nakkár’s fear turned into panic for his life. He soaked up the
man’s terror, energized by his distress, and used it to fuel his relentless drive forward, pushing Nakkár hard, watching for the moment his concentration wavered.
When Nakkár threw a desperate strike toward his head, Bálok lashed out with his left hand and seized his wrist, twisting it downward and back behind Nakkár, forcing him to turn away while he kicked the back of his right knee, bringing him to his knees in front of him. Bálok reached down and grabbed Nakkár’s throat from behind and squeezed, piercing his neck muscles with his claws before he released him and raked across the top of his back, kicking him forward to the floor.
Bálok stood over the stunned man, oblivious of the pandemonium all over the stadium, waiting while Nakkár pushed himself over onto his back and looked up at him with shock.
“I thought you were going to kill me,” the young man croaked, holding a trembling hand over the cuts in his neck.
“I could have in a heartbeat—don’t forget it,” Bálok barked down at him over the noise. “You’re damned lucky I didn’t come after your sorry ass ten years ago and blow you out of the sky. Don’t ever cost me lives or money again, Nakkár.”
The Grumium nobleman shook his head nervously, his eyes wide with fear.
Retracting his claws, Bálok glanced up and realized Zirik and the entire section of his Eltanin officers were shrieking and whooping their heads off, ecstatic that their lord had bashed Nakkár so thoroughly. In an uncharacteristic display, he raised his right fist in the air, bringing another round of screams from his men and a small smile to his son’s face. The Emperor looked perturbed that he hadn’t killed Nakkár, but gave him a begrudging nod of approval. Panting, he turned and walked back across the floor to his silent but grinning band of guardsmen.
Jimat handed him a wet towel as soon as he reached the sidelines. Instead of satisfaction over his trouncing of Nakkár, the captain’s eyes were clouded with worry, but he kept any thoughts he might have about Bálok’s state of mind to himself. In a low voice, he stated, “The woman watches you constantly, Lord.”
Bálok breathed heavily as he fastidiously wiped down both of his hands and his skin. “Does she?”
He stole a sidelong glance up at Saryn who looked away the moment he caught her eye.
“I don’t know what to make of it, but I thought you might want to know,” Jimat went on.
“And Eo?”
“He keeps an eye on you, Lord, as well as someone else along the sidelines between our party and his, but I can’t tell who. He’s also had many conversations with his officers who move in and out of the stadium to do his bidding.”
Bálok nodded, just as one of his guards returned to the arena from the tunnel entrance and hurried up to them, waiting for permission to speak.
“Report.”
“As you requested, Lord, I discovered news in the palace about Lord Burdek of Alrakis. He was murdered last night in his quarters.”
“Hmm,” Bálok rumbled as he glanced at Jimat. “Guess I’m not going to find out what he wanted. Anything else?” he asked the waiting guard.
“Yes, Lord. When I came down the corridor from the palace toward our chambers, a servant in a plain linen robe was standing opposite our door, but as soon as the woman caught sight of my clothing and badge, she vanished.”
“Someone wants to know where we’re quartered?” Jimat suggested.
“Apparently so. Good work,” he said to the officer, dismissing him with a nod.
A surge of venomous yells from the stands as well as the ring pulled their attention back to the floor where a murderous match between two Gorans took up center stage. Bardur and Guldak of Priya were in the thick of what appeared to be a personal war, ranting and cursing at each other with every powerful swipe and lunge. Noise from the stands drowned out any of the words being flung back and forth between the two fighters, but the tone and insulting intent were abundantly clear.
“It looks like they hate each other,” Jimat remarked.
“Um-hm. They’re cousins. Guldak’s father controls Thuban’s second largest world.”
Both Gorans were bleeding from deep gashes and the ferocity of their attacks spoke of long-standing rivalry and animosity. After what must have been a particularly vile taunt, Guldak charged furiously at Bardur with a lethal forward strike, but the Goran prince leaned back just in time to avoid the sweeping claws and snapped his arm out quickly to lock Guldak’s wrist in his elbow. With a violent backward twist of his torso, Bardur pulled Guldak around in front of him while he reached up to slice across the man’s neck. As Bardur released his hold, Guldak crumpled to the floor and lay bleeding and still, sprawled across one side of the ring.
“We have a kill!” the announcer cried out excitedly while the Drahks in the stands jumped to their feet, screaming their approval. “Fifty thousand gold weights to Prince Bardur!”
With his fists in the air, Bardur trotted around the ring and let out a loud whoop of victory while Tashek applauded and beamed. Guldak’s father and supporters in the stands yelled with deep hostility, shaking their fists at Bardur who smirked up at them and countered with several obscene gestures.
“One less Goran to deal with,” Bálok muttered as Guldak’s retainers lifted their lord’s body from the floor and headed toward the airfield exit.
The noise level in the arena remained high while the ring was scrubbed for the last match of the round. “Daga’s up against Majah,” Jimat murmured as he glanced at the board, “and the crowd is worked up. This can’t be good.”
“No,” Bálok agreed, turning his head to search out Tirgal and Saryn in the stands above Izar’s party. The imposing Aldhiban ruler sat stone still, his arms crossed, staring down at his grandson who was walking out to the ring with calm deliberation to take on the strutting Lord of Tyl.
With the first few moves, it was quite noticeable that the two fighters were surprisingly well matched. Majah’s pattern seemed to be to circle and jeer, followed by throwing some kind of fancy combination of kicks and thrusts. Daga met and blocked everything Majah dished out and came back with his own adroit moves, eventually drawing first blood. Predictably, Majah was enraged by the audacity of another fighter landing a strike and his attacks became more forceful, his verbal abuse more pronounced, pushing Daga until he managed to slide under his defenses and graze his upper thigh. The exchange escalated until both fighters had each landed two strikes and then hit a plateau while they battled for the decisive stroke.
As the match dragged on, Bálok stalked along the sidelines watching the center ring, feeling itchy and confined as he marched back and forth in front of his Eltanin guards. On the far side of the arena, the other Goran fighters yelled at Majah, goading him to hurry up and get it over with.
With an inflamed gleam in his eyes, Majah advanced with a flurry of kicks and slashes, and finally managed to nick Daga’s arm for the victory strike. Majah galloped off to the sidelines amid cheering and boos while Daga walked back to his own men with an exasperated expression over his first loss, glancing up at his grandfather who simply smiled and nodded, undoubtedly relieved that Daga was walking away from the Goran bastard alive.
The horn and drums sounded to signal the beginning of the third round. The moment the names flashed up on the screen overhead, Majah let out several loud hoots when he saw he was paired with Izar for the last match.
“Shit, I’m second to last,” Bálok seethed with aggravation, wondering how he was going to make it through the fights before his.
“And you’re up against Rall, Lord,” Jimat observed as he reviewed the board.
“About bloody time I got one of the Goran blowhards.”
“He’s savage,” the captain remarked acidly. “He shredded Súlanan pretty badly in the second round, after you sliced—” He broke off his words without finishing his thought. “The Kuman lord must have dropped out. He’s no longer in the lists.”
Bálok studied his lead captain whose features were taut with concern. “I can handle Rall, Jimat.”
The captain kept his gaze out on the busy floor. “That’s not what I—yes, Lord. I know.”
“What I can’t handle is standing still,” Bálok complained. “Come on, the Gorans all stand around the ring. I want to get a closer look. The rest of you can come if you want,” he said, motioning to the other officers before heading out across the floor to join the scattered fighters and guardsmen hovering about ten to fifteen feet outside of the ring boundary marked on the floor. By the time the first match of the round started, almost everyone on the floor had vacated the sidelines to take up closer positions around the ring.
In spite of the better view, Bálok stalked around the perimeter of the bystanders with Jimat at his heels, stopping on occasion to watch the action and analyze a fighter’s tactics, but invariably taking off again in an effort to work off the excess tension in his muscles. No one seemed to notice or care, except one pair of chartreuse eyes that followed him unobtrusively wherever he went.
When his match was finally announced, Bálok walked into the ring amid cheers from his men and the Ka’s lining the ring while Rall stepped away from his cohorts with an arrogant smirk on his face, looking Bálok up and down once before pointing at Izar’s towering form on the edge of the fighters and guards behind Bálok.
“I wanted that one,” he called loudly. “There’s no price tag on this one’s head.”
“Just a kill, asshole,” Bardur sniped. “It’s good money—take care of Bálok and we can cut down Izar in the finals tomorrow.”
“Alright, I’ll clean this one up,” the Goran commander drawled. “I haven’t seen anything too daunting out of him yet—he was supposed to be some hot shit. Come on, pretty boy, let’s see what you can do,” he taunted as he moved toward the center of the ring with claws swinging, ready to strike.