Amish Vampires in Space (73 page)

Three years of training, three weeks of constant fighting aboard this ship, and now everything came down to this final match. Rathe snapped his tail, fighting down a sudden rush of insecurity. He had no reason to doubt himself now, not after having fought through the entire Sokojae rankings undefeated.

Lightning flashed again, outlining the humpbacked, flippered form of a huge balroi as it breached the raging sea. Wriggling silver genriks poured from the sides of the predator's beaked maw.

Seedpods struck the deck behind him in a cascading staccato. Rathe smiled. Each of his wins had been like one of those seedpods breaking through the preconceptions of the Sokojae judges and his fellow combatants. They had been so fixed on his hatch status—he was the fifth hatched of his sire's fifth brood—they hadn't taken note of his high marks during training.

He ran his claws over the pips on the leather-wrapped sarkae on his left arm. They marked his hatch status and would normally have determined his station, but thanks to the death of a jerkrenak and rescuing the favored hatchling of a highranking Inquisitor, he'd broken out of the accepted constraints. Now he had just one more fight to win to make the most of his good fortune.

The screech of breaking metal and a high-pitched roar rose above the storm. On the loading deck below he could see the flicker of a fire and a tarp flapping wildly in the wind. Another round of curses rose from the crew.

Rathe pushed away from the rail and ran toward the ramp leading to the lower level on the far side of the observation deck. He skidded to a halt on the muddy deck as a dask barreled up the ramp onto his level. The soft glow of the light globes revealed four spindly arms splayed around a squared head that was mostly mouth, with two eye-stalks swiveling wildly on the top. Leather sheaths at the tip of each arm masked a wicked hooked claw. One of the casings had broken free and now hung useless from the upper left arm.

The three-foot-tall beast cowered under Rathe's eleven-foot height. With a roar, the dask pulled its arms back in preparation for a strike. Rathe sidestepped the creature's lunge and grabbed it by the end of the tail, just below two leather-capped stingers.

"Don't hurt it!"

A winded saurn of the Dilof clan stumbled off the ramp from the lower deck. "That dask is the centerpiece for the judges' table for the post-tournament feast. If there is even the smallest blemish on him before then they'll chop my tail for sure."

"I'd suggest keeping a better hold on it then," Rathe said as he handed over the dask. "The judges will need the sweetest of meats to mask the sour taste of my victory in the Sokojae."

"You're the low-hatch that's been thrashing the tournament?" The dilof's eyes widened. "I've got fifty kriz sitting on you, and the odds are twenty-to-one against you beating Votak. Of course with how easily you caught this dask, maybe I should make that a hundred."

Rathe grinned. "You had best get that dask out of this storm before it escapes again and keeps you from enjoying your winnings."

The dilof hefted the dask by the tail and, with a wave of thanks, hurried back to the lower deck.

Rathe glanced at the ship's command beak just visible past the cargo-laden deck. Its upper windows glowed gold against the storming sky and raging sea. A low horn sounded the hour, reminding him it was time to finish preparations for his final match. As he turned to go inside, the ship gave a sudden lurch, and his feet slipped on the muddy deck. Rathe flung his arms wide and whipped his tail. He almost regained his balance, but the ship shuddered again and gravity won.

"And so falls the great warrior," a familiar voice said. "Not by claw of saurn, but by mud and water."

Rathe laughed. He should have known Rakjear would come looking for him. He rolled onto his belly and a green foot came into view, each of its three toes ending in a four-inch claw.

"Clamp it, Rak," Rathe said, lurching to his feet. "If I remember correctly, it was two days before you could even walk on this blasted ship."

Rakjear, a yanguch like Rathe, stood eleven feet tall and eighteen feet from snout to tail tip. His forest green skin, marked with large brown spots, glistened wetly under the transport's deck lights. Rathe wiped at the mud covering his own deep green-blue, maroon-speckled skin. Thick black stripes crossed his pale green and Rakjear's tan undercolor, a testament to their youth.

"It's not like I had ever seen anything larger than a pond before I got to the mines." Rakjear leaned against the observation deck's railing. "There wasn't a volcano within a hundred kliks of my home. Just rolling hills of grass, with a forest here and there—"

"And the best dask hunting this side of the Kashin Range," Rathe said. "Although seeing as how I managed to catch one here just a few minutes ago, I may have to question that fact."

Thunder rumbled over them. Rathe caught a glimpse of another blite's last moment.

"You mean that scrawny hatchling I saw that dilof scurrying off with?" Rakjear's eyes twinkled. "I was catching dasks twice that size before I grew into my skin."

Rathe grabbed the railing next to Rakjear and stared at the churning sea. "Can you believe it's only been six weeks since we finished our training and left the mines?" He took a deep breath, relishing the thick damp air. "It feels so good to breathe fresh air again."

"You call this fresh air?" Rakjear gestured at the storm raging around them.

"Fresh enough for me." A shiver ran down Rathe's spine. "I keep worrying I'm going to wake up back in the darkness and the stench, stuck doing guard duty again and purging draklin nests for the rest of my life."

"At least in the mines I didn't have to stand out in the rain with you. Besides, that's all behind us now." Rakjear slapped Rathe's leg with his tail. "And we've come a long way from the fresh-skins we were when we entered training. You, more than anyone."

"That we have." Rathe flicked his tail.

"And now you're about to become a Sokojae champion. Who would have guessed it?"

"You, Rak." Rathe pushed away from the deck railing and looked Rakjear in the eye. "You always cheered me on, even after I passed you in ranking. Even when everyone else tried to push me down because of my hatch status, you never once held that over me."

Rakjear shrugged. "I just didn't want to get beat up by a lowly fivefive."

Rathe gave him a playful shove.

Rakjear smiled back. "Besides, hatch status is a dumb way of determining worth. You'll do great things, Rathe. You already have."

"Not if I miss the match tonight," Rathe said. "I've got to get ready."

Another stroke of lightning split the sky and thunder rolled. Abruptly, fire filled the air. With shrill screams, a shower of seedpods fell about them. Long fiery tails cast a shifting light. Shadows danced wildly as the pods struck the deck in a deafening clatter. Everything disappeared except the shrill cacophony of life reborn.

Then the fire ceased, and only the hiss of cooling seedpods, the thick splatter of rain, and the faint scent of char remained.

"Kersheth's Ring!" Rakjear's eyes widened. "A seedpod shower was not on my list of things to experience tonight. Now hurry up and get back inside before one of those blites falls on my head."

As if on cue, the burning husk of a blite crashed onto the deck, missing Rakjear by inches.

"If you insist." Rathe walked past Rakjear, who stood frozen in place, staring at the sputtering husk in front of him. "You don't know what you're missing though. Nothing beats a good storm." Rathe paused at the entryway and glanced back. "You coming?"

Rakjear shook himself and followed after Rathe. Pausing at the hatch, he looked at the raging storm. "The only good thing about a storm is that it hides the stars."

• • •

Rathe leaned against the sleeping bench in his tiny, square room. He could barely straighten his tail here, and he had to keep his head low to avoid bumping the ceiling as the transport rolled with the waves. With Rakjear sitting on the stool next to the equipment rack while Rathe strapped on his gear, the room felt more like a cramped shipping container than a living space.

"You should have seen the look on your face," Rathe said as he buckled the last straps of his battle gear. "You would have thought a star had come down to burn you alive."

Rakjear handed Rathe his gauntlets. "And what would you think if some fiery thing had dropped out of the sky and nearly crushed you?"

Rathe slipped on the gauntlets and snapped them snug around his forearms. "I'd remember that I was standing in the middle of a storm where things like that happen."

"It may happen to you all the time, but it's the first—and last—time it will happen to me," Rakjear said. "It's one of the few benefits to growing up so far away from volcanoes and their blasted storms."

Rathe waggled his tail at him as he stepped into the passageway. "Just take it as a good omen, Rak. A sign that our enemies will fall before us."

"Bah, signs are for the spika and toothless elders." Rakjear bared his three-inch-long teeth in a mock roar. "Not for mighty warriors like us. Strong claws and sharp blades are all we need."

Rathe chuckled at Rakjear's antics. "You had best get to the dome if you want a good spot to watch from. I'll meet you here after the match to celebrate my victory."

Rakjear's face fell in concern. "Watch your tail in there, Rathe. It only takes one slipup to get yourself maimed. I don't want to see you lose everything you've fought for."

"Don't worry, Rak. I'm ready for this."

"I know that. It's just that both you and Votak are undefeated, and you know the judges are looking for an excuse to knock you down."

"You let me worry about the judges and the fight," Rathe said. "Besides, I'm the one who's supposed to be worried. You're supposed to be cheering me on."

Rakjear laughed. "You're right. Get out there and knock that high-hatch Votak back into his egg."

"With pleasure."

As Rathe bounded down the narrow passageway he focused on what he had to accomplish in his fight. Rakjear was right about one thing: if Rathe lost, even with only one defeat, the judges could send him back to Karnia to serve in the Civil Guard. Or worse, they would send him back to being a guard in the skereta mines.

He shook his head. "I haven't come this far to fail now."

Tradition stood behind him. The Sokojae was an ancient tournament that predated the rise of the Karn Empire, and that was thousands of years ago. Rathe remembered his early instructors telling him that the Sokojae had begun as a battle to settle disputes between warring tribes. The first Melgor, the one who had united the Karnian tribes and formed the Empire, had embraced the tradition and crafted it into a way to weed out weak warriors as they competed for placement in the Imperial Army.

Rathe snapped his teeth. Even if the judges wanted to see him fail because of his hatch status, the honor of the Sokojae was ingrained in every Karnian male from the time they hatched. The fight lasted until one combatant could not continue or yielded the battle. He snarled. The only way he would lose this fight is if Votak killed him.

He grimaced at the thought. Most combatants had an understanding. They would fight with ferocity but never follow through on killing blows. But tonight would be different. Rathe knew that Votak had already come close to killing three of his opponents, and rumor had it that he had sworn to rid the military of Rathe, an "upstart low-hatch who didn't know his place."

A chorus of high-pitched cheers drew Rathe's eyes upward. A group of foot-tall lesoth stood on the catwalk that ran the length of the ship's corridors. The catwalk was for the smaller clans to use. They whistled and chirped while pumping their serpentine necks up and down.

Two unfurled a small banner across the walkway's railing that read: "GO RATHE! 5-5 GOES 15-0! STUFF THEIR SHELLS!"

"The crew is all pulling for you," a bright green lesoth said. "Stuff that Votak back into his egg!"

Rathe bared his teeth in a mock snarl and winked at them, which started off a new round of cheers from the tiny crewmembers as they ran through the small access hatch that led the catwalk to the ship's rear deck.

An older yanguch with mottled blue skin shouldered past in the narrow hallway with a growl, pressing Rathe into the cold metal wall. The ceiling lights glinted off the hatch status pips on the saurn's worn, leather sarkae. A three-five. "You should have kept to your place," the yanguch said. "Votak has taken down larger saurn than you, late-hatch. You'll end up nothing but a sorry disgrace for our clan."

Rathe clenched his fist but held his temper in check. He had to keep a clear head for the fight. That's all that mattered now. With a resigned sigh he stepped through the door and into the chill night air of the lower rear deck.

Hundreds of golub poles ringed the edge of the deck, banishing the gloom of night, while the massive arch of the Sokojae dome dominated the entire rear of the transport, stretching the full hundred-and-fifty-foot width. Rathe had wondered what kept the transport from flipping backward from all this back here, until a crewmember had explained that the forward pontoons doubled as massive ballast tanks to offset the weight.

From the lower deck he could see only the bottom bulge of the dome where the actual fighting pit was located. The upper deck led to the spectators' area, where those who hadn't won the chance to compete watched the matches play out during the voyage.

He paused near a light and checked his gear one last time. He cinched the straps of his tathnak tight. The supple armor fit snug against his pale green chest and belly, protecting his vulnerable underside from enemy blades. Its straps connected with his battle pack.

The large pack covered his back from the base of his neck to the base of his tail. It narrowed as it passed over his hips before flaring out again to the base of his tail. It served both as armor and gear storage.

Despite the tournament's long history and revered status, very little ceremony surrounded the Sokojae. Rathe stretched his arms. Only his skill as a warrior had brought him this far, and he had to believe that it would see him through to the end. And Rakjear's warning held all too much truth.